


When You Find It, Run

by irisbleufic



Series: Delicate, Dangerous, Obsessed [4]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arkham Asylum, Ballad 39: Tam Lin, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Character of Color, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon LGBTQ Character, Canon LGBTQ Female Character, Canon LGBTQ Male Character, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Catharsis, Consensual Kink, Crimes & Criminals, Decadence, Established Relationship, Fairy Tale Retellings, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gotham City Police Department, Hallucinations, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, Illustrated, Jewish Character, Kink Negotiation, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Female Character of Color, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, M/M, Making Jim Gordon Suffer, Mental Health Issues, Modern Retelling, Murder Husbands, Neurodiversity, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), POV Edward Nygma, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Partnership, Power Dynamics, Protectiveness, Psychopaths In Love, Queer Themes, Rescue Missions, Retelling, Revenge, Riddles, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Romantic Friendship, Scandal, Scheming, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Think About What You've Done, Trust, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Villains, Voyeurism, Weird Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-10-18 00:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 132,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10605213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “But hold me fast, and fear me not,” whispered Edward, pleadingly, his fingers tightening urgently around Oswald's wrists, “and I'll do you no harm. What am I?”“Ed?” Oswald gasped, disbelieving, tearing his eyes away from Kathryn. “That's—”“A riddle, from the sound of things,” said Kathryn. “And it did you all the harm in the world.”[COMPLETE, as arebonus ficlets.Spans 3x01-18 w/canon re-framing and divergence.  Riddles in here have all been adapted from the show and online sourcesexceptones I wrote, which are: chess queen riddle in #10, desire riddle in #11, guilt riddle in #12, all riddles/rhymes in #13, death riddle in #15, compromise riddle in #19, anniversary sort-of-riddle in #21, mistake riddle in #23, and adapted ballad-line hope riddle in #30.  I discuss thematic influence fromTam Linhereandhere.  8tracks playlisthere.]





	1. Sane

If not for the sweater Oswald had sent him, the crisp bite of evening would have reached Edward even through the sleeves of his stiff, months-unwashed collared shirt. His skin prickled at the scrape of dusty twill with each move he made. As he crossed Arkham's threshold, resentful of how ill the storage staff had treated his old clothing, the gate creaked behind him.

Edward offered Warden Quimby a flat glare over his shoulder, turning to confront him. “I'm sane.”

“Absolutely,” said Quimby, terse beneath his smile. “One-hundred percent. I examined you myself.”

There wasn't a single compelling reason _not_ to go for broke. It had to be some kind of trap.

“And the murder of Miss Kringle?” Edward challenged, fingers tightening on his certificate in one hand and on his paper bag of scant possessions ( _biscuit tin, puzzle box, pens_ ) in the other.

“Committed while you were insane,” Quimby replied smoothly, with an edge of possible impatience.

“Officer Dougherty,” Edward tried, disbelieving, but he knew that his tone showed no variance that Quimby could perceive. He'd bash the man's head in with the puzzle box if he wasn't so attached to it.

“Insane,” Quimby reassured him, something about the warden's expression suggestive of a sick joke.

“Officer Pinkney,” Edward countered, tightening his grip on the bag. He'd have to strike fast, because he'd be _damned_ if this rube was going to call down guards any second to force Edward back inside. Surely Oswald would understand if he made a murder weapon of the priceless gift.

“ _Insane_ ,” Quimby insisted, visibly tetchy, reaching for the gate. He began to pull it inward.

Edward regarded him with perplexity, distracted by sudden awareness of cricket-song and dogs barking in the distance. Perhaps it was time to try a different angle. “And now I'm...”

“Sane,” Quimby informed him, continuing to tug the gate toward himself, “and not at all responsible for any of the acts perpetrated during your sickness. You're a free man, Edward.”

 _He's afraid of me_ , Edward realized, making an instinctive grab for the gate. _As well he should be_. He prevented Quimby from closing it, permitting his features to shift into scripted rearrangement. _Let him know you're suspicious_ , he thought. _You need answers_.

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth,” said Edward, fractionally expressive, “but how did you...”

Before Quimby could respond, a vehicle pulled up behind Edward, the overwrought hum of its engine suggesting great expense. Letting go of the gate, he recognized the no-account flunky of a driver.

“Never mind,” he said, turning briefly back to face Quimby with a smile caught between subconscious reflex and intention to disturb the warden's sense of security. He turned again, relief washing over him.

The limousine's rear window glided open, and Oswald—his clear, manic eyes unexpectedly accentuated by whatever else that purple brocade tie was attempting to do—leaned out.

“Hello, old friend,” he said to Edward, grinning broadly, more cat-caught-canary than penguin.

Edward felt the shift in his own expression before he quite understood why Oswald's softened.

“Get in here before you catch cold,” Oswald chided, disappearing, pushing the back door open wide.

Without a second thought for Warden Quimby, Edward nearly stumbled in his haste to join Oswald. 

The interior of the limousine carried the acrid scent of new upholstery under a veneer of Oswald's custom cologne ( _vetiver, lilac, muguet_ ). Edward settled as close to Oswald as he dared. Nothing foreign, these resinous florals, but they were jarring outside the olfactory din of Arkham.

“You're not allergic to me, Edward, are you?” Oswald asked, offering a crisp white cotton handkerchief as Edward tugged the door shut. “You look like you're about to sneeze.”

Edward took the handkerchief even though he didn't need it, noting the umbrella picked out at one corner in cobalt silk embroidery. He pressed it to his nose with a grateful nod. Social nicety.

“False alarm,” he said, folding the handkerchief over on itself, tucking it in his pocket before Oswald could protest. “To what do I owe such an impetuous rescue? Did that twitchy idiot owe you a favor?”

“None he _knew_ of,” said Oswald, smug and self-satisfied as ever, hands propped on his cane.

“Let me guess,” Edward replied, realizing that he hadn't stopped smiling for several solid minutes. “Your bid for mayor puts you in the position to...create or to diminish opportunities, depending.”

“That's what I like about you,” Oswald said. “One of many things, anyway. You don't miss a trick.”

“You'll need help on the campaign trail,” Edward sighed. “We won't have time for leisurely catch-up.”

“Oh, don't be silly,” said Oswald, almost coy, but the expression melted into one of unabashed concern. “There'll be _plenty_ of time for that. My first and foremost concern is that you get a good night's sleep. I doubt you've had one in months. Not only are those rooms drafty,” he said, eyes sweeping over Edward's sweater with an easily-telegraphed air of pleasure, “but the walls are _pitifully_ thin.”

“I like that I can read you,” said Edward, wondering if he was repeating himself. Their conversations over six months of visits had grown candid, possessed of an ease he'd rarely experienced elsewhere.

“And I like that we can read each other,” Oswald replied, radiating genuine satisfaction. “In all seriousness,” he went on, “you look a bit worse for wear. Were those cretins feeding you enough?”

“Nothing I especially cared to eat,” Edward admitted, reaching for the paper bag. He removed the biscuit tin, tapping on it with his bitten-to-the-quick nails, enjoying the sound. “These helped.”

“Long gone,” Oswald observed, shaking the tin in Edward's grasp without touching Edward's hand.

Edward didn't know whether to be grateful or disappointed. “Yes. But they lasted me a little while.”

“I'll send Olga for more first thing in the morning,” Oswald said, extending his arm along the back of the seat. “Perhaps I ought to stop chattering so that you can enjoy the scenery?”

“It's dark out,” Edward stated, realizing he hadn't put on a seatbelt. He scooted closer to Oswald. “The less of me you have, the more I am worth,” he said, cradling the tin in his lap. “What am I?”

“I have no idea,” Oswald replied, looking more charmed than irritated, “but we're almost home.”

Once Gilzean had parked in front of the mansion and opened the limousine door—too surly for a proper footman by _far_ , this gorilla—Edward followed Oswald inside the house with his possessions clasped to his chest. Normally a stickler for preservation, he realized just across the threshold that he'd somehow let his certificate sustain a few wrinkles. He set the bag down on the floor, fretting at the parchment's bent corners.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he told himself. _This is an important document_.

Oswald swept up the bag one-handed and peered inside, his expression unreadable in Edward's peripheral vision. “You kept the puzzle box,” he said in mild surprise. “Even though it bored you?”

“A puzzle solved doesn't outlive its utility,” said Edward, agitated by the task of uncreasing corners. “The inlaid designs, for example. I adapted them into mazes. Busy-work for irritating inmates.”

“Ed,” Oswald was saying, fingertips hesitant against Edward's wrist. “ _Ed_. Please, let me.”

Edward looked up, astonished to find it seemed logical to surrender his certificate without a fuss.

“Did you know,” Oswald said, handing it off to Gilzean, who took it over to an antique-picture-laden table in the entryway, “that mine got rained on when they let me out? It was all but ruined.”

“I didn't,” Edward confessed, letting Oswald draw him toward the staircase. The pressure of Oswald's fingertips felt reassuring through two layers of cloth, as scratchy as one of them remained.

“It's of no consequence,” Oswald said, sure-footed ahead of Edward on the stairs. “You're here now,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder with another of his guileless smiles. Different from the ones he wore on television, different from the ones he gave men like Quimby. 

Distantly, Edward wondered if he and Oswald's parents had been this smile's only recipients.

“I had a devil of a time getting my hands on your things,” Oswald explained, leading Edward to a door at the end of the long, low-lit hall they'd been traversing. “Worth it. Most should be accounted for,” he added, pushing the door inward, hitting the old-fashioned button switch on the wall.

“I don't see my kitchen supplies,” said Edward, taking in the elegance interspersed with the comforting routine of his rescued possessions, “but you told me back when you stayed that most of them needed to be thrown out anyway. If you have better ones, I'll be happy to cook for you.”

“Nonsense,” Oswald said, taking a few shuffling steps back toward the hall. “That's what Olga's for.”

“Then how can I thank you?” Edward asked, tempted to follow, abruptly uncertain of how appealing he'd find remaining alone in such a vast room whether it held the remnants of his life or not.

“We've been over that,” Oswald replied, hands poised on his cane. “You'll consider my job offer.”

“I'm not saying this is what will happen,” said Edward, choosing his words with intent that he couldn't afford to obscure, “but let's suppose, for the sake of argument, that I say no. What happens then?”

“Then you'll be my house-guest,” said Oswald, shrugging, “and I'll ask one of the interns to step in.”

“You won't find me jovial company like before,” said Edward, ruefully. “Arkham. It was—”

He stopped short, mesmerized by what Oswald had drawn from his jacket in one swift motion.

“The highlight of my month,” said Oswald, offering the origami penguin. “Seeing you, that is.”

Edward took it from him, examined the black-and-gold polka dotted wrapping paper, and handed it back. For the life of him, he couldn't stop smiling. How could be be so tired and still manage it?

“Friendship,” he said, picking at the sleeve of his sweater, watching Oswald pocket the penguin.

“What?” Oswald asked, his pensive expression lifting. “ _Oh_. The less of me you have...”

“The more I'm worth,” Edward finished. “A belated answer is better than none. My answer is yes.”


	2. Clean

Over the buzz of his campaign staff and the hum of the television—something about this being _the night Gotham has been waiting for_ —Oswald couldn't pick out the one voice in the room he most wanted to find. That wasn't at all unusual; Edward tended not to speak unless approached. 

Oswald caught sight of Edward standing alone near the hearth. He strode quickly across the room.

Edward's hands were folded in front of him, his eyes downcast. The sum total of his posture suggested any number of complications—perhaps Arkham-related, perhaps not. Anxiety dogged Edward from moment to moment at a baseline, but stress as a result of exposure to speech after speech, crowd after crowd, from early morning until sundown, was the more likely culprit.

“This is it,” said Oswald, cheerfully, hoping to provide a distraction. “The moment I've been waiting for,” he added, watching Edward's posture loosen and the neutral mask of his face reconfigure itself.

“Indeed,” Edward agreed, beaming. He moved as if to draw closer to Oswald, but froze in his tracks.

Oswald heard heavy footfalls before he spotted the perpetrator, turning to face the inevitable outburst.

“You!” Butch shouted, seizing Edward by the tie before Oswald could command him to back down. “You ruined _everything_!” he snarled, backing Edward up as far as he could go, pinning him roughly against the window.

“Butch, release him this instant!” Oswald shouted, rushing to Edward. “ _What_ is going on?”

“I'll tell you what's going on,” Butch snarled, sparing Oswald a venomous sidelong glance before shifting his glare back to a stunned, speechless Edward. “He just cost you the election,” he continued, tightening his grip on Edward's tie; at the sight, Oswald's pulse practically hit the ceiling. “He went to every district official and took the money back. Said you wanted to run a clean election.”

Edward wasn't quite to the point of choking, but he looked more terrified and vulnerable by the second.

Oswald attempted to rein in his conflicting emotions, but it was useless. He didn't want to believe—

“Tell me this is not true,” he pleaded, noticing the uncharacteristic luminosity of Edward's dark eyes.

“I'm afraid Butch is right,” said Edward, deadpan, gaze locked unflinching on Oswald's. “For once.”

Butch growled and hitched Edward up even tighter, and, in spite of his fury, Oswald couldn't bear it.

“ _Why_?” he demanded. “After everything I've done for you? Everything we could've done together?”

Edward tried to speak, but the force with which Butch had him pinned rendered the effort moot.

“You betrayed me,” Oswald lamented, heartbroken at the example he'd have to make of this extraordinary man. “Butch!” he ordered, stepping to one side as Butch let go of Edward in order to draw his gun, glancing back at Edward even though it hurt like _nothing_ he'd ever felt. “Give me one reason why I shouldn't let Butch kill you where you stand,” he said, desperately hoping that Edward would have an explanation, would prove clever enough to provide Oswald with an out, _anything_ to prevent the inevitable from coming to pass.

Edward all but rolled his eyes, somehow resigned and sarcastic even while staring down a bullet.

“Well, there are about thirty witnesses,” he said, giving Oswald an understated, meaningful look.

Unable to grasp Edward's cryptic implication, Oswald unleashed his remaining fury. “I don't _care_!”

As if in response, the crowd on television erupted into raucous celebration. So did Oswald's staff.

“ _And_ there's that,” said Edward, as if for Oswald's ears alone, inclining his head toward the crowd.

Oswald whirled to face the television, waving for everyone to be quiet as he approached, listening.

“In what can only be viewed as a seismic shift even by Gotham standards,” said the bland, perky news anchor, “former underworld kingpin Oswald Cobblepot has won the mayor's office by a landslide.”

Oswald felt his eyes well up, still waving his left arm to calm the commotion. Had he _really_ —

“I still won,” he said in disbelief, turning immediately to Edward. “They really want me as mayor.”

“Yes,” said Edward, having grown shockingly steady for all that Butch still held a gun in his face.

Something from earlier in the day that had been niggling at the back of Oswald's head went _click_.

“I can't be bought, but I can be stolen with one glance,” he recited, lightheaded, advancing on Edward with all the stunning weight of realization behind him. “I'm worthless to one, but priceless to two...”

Edward's hand gestures, in perfect imitation of the ones he'd used while speaking those same words that afternoon, snapped ruthlessly into focus.

The mirrored trajectory arcs of Edward's index fingers formed a _heart_.

“Love,” Oswald breathed, longing to reach for Edward, reassure him, _anything_ , but the impatient twitch of Butch's finger against the trigger was enough to draw his attention. He smacked the weapon away in irritated relief, just in time to hear his name being chanted on television.

Edward smiled at Oswald as he approached, in spite of the fact that Butch was paying them undue attention.

“They love me,” said Oswald, finding that at least half of his reverence was for the man in front of him.

“If you had bought the election, you would've never known,” replied Edward, firmly, his calm and grounded smile a welcome sight. “But now you do,” he added, stepping closer to Oswald, as if sharing a secret.

By then, Oswald was nearly crying, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He'd come within a hair's breadth of killing a constituent, one of the very people who'd inexplicably come to love him. And not just _any_ constituent.

“Feels good, doesn't it?” Edward continued, returning Oswald's giddy grin as they began to laugh.

“How did you know I would win?” Oswald demanded, completely in awe of Edward's cleverness.

“I believe in you, Oswald,” said Edward, more expressive now than Oswald had ever seen him, and he wondered just how much effort it would cost Edward to maintain such a vulnerable display. “Even when you don't believe in yourself.”

Oswald sniffled and laughed, wishing he hadn't given up his handkerchief so easily the day before. He wanted to throw his arms around Edward, crush the breath from him, but Butch still hovered far too close for comfort.

“ _You_ ,” he hissed, rounding on Butch. “You never believed I could win this election on my own. I think maybe you're not cut out for this after all.”

“What?” Butch demanded incredulously. “You've got to be kidding me!” he protested, indicating Edward over Oswald's shoulder. “This guy—”

“Don't worry,” interjected Oswald, as loudly and disdainfully as he could manage. “I still need someone to crack skulls.” He sniffed and cleared his throat, beckoning to Edward as he turned. “Come, Ed. We have plans to make!”

As much as Oswald would have liked to remain behind to enjoy Butch's misery, the item currently at the top of his celebratory agenda was tugging Edward along to the kitchen by his elbow. Once they were safely ensconced there, Oswald rummaged through the cupboards until he came up with a bottle of his father's favorite dessert wine: an expensive California make, reminiscent of port, with a garish arrow-pierced heart on the label.

(Quady's _Elysium_ Black Muscat, 2007 vintage. If Fish had ever stocked it, Oswald couldn't recall.)

“Thematically appropriate,” Edward remarked, fetching two glasses while Oswald tackled the cork.

“And timely,” Oswald insisted, flinging the corkscrew aside, handing Edward the bottle. He watched Edward fill the glasses, and then snatched one of them gleefully away from him, clinking rim against delicate rim. “To your career in politics!”

Edward watched Oswald over his first sip of the wine, eyebrows raised. “Technically, I'm out of a job.”

“Nonsense,” said Oswald, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Close a door, open a window.”

“You're no longer in need of a campaign advisor,” Edward pointed out, sniffing the contents of his glass with a frown. “Did you know this stuff's twelve percent? Even then, I was in the role for all of twenty-four hours, and maybe seventeen of those were spent on duty.”

“Pretty much, yes?” said Oswald, to all of it, shrugging. He downed the remainder of his glass.

Wide-eyed, not quite laughing, Edward shrugged and did the same. “To open windows,” he said.

“I'll find something else for you to do,” said Oswald. “Fancy yourself my sommelier for a start?”

“This is nice, but it's too sweet for my taste,” Edward admitted, unexpectedly withdrawing Oswald's wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket. “Here, you've got...” He gestured, at a loss for words, dabbing at the damp corner of Oswald's mouth.

Oswald covered Edward's hand with his own, ticklish at the brush of worn cotton against his chin.

That was how Butch found them: giggling inanely over red-wine splotches that looked like blood.

“Hate to break it to you, boss, but fun-time's over. Channel Five's got a podium set up in there.”

Oswald straightened up, setting his glass and Edward's glass aside one after the other, trusting that Olga would find them in the morning. He took Edward by the wrist, leading him right out past Butch without so much as deigning to respond.

“Oh dear,” Edward murmured, slightly tipsy, inflection undone. “You left your cane in the kitchen.”

“Now is _not_ the time, my dear Ed,” Oswald reassured him, depositing Edward amidst the applauding crowd as he hobbled his way across the room. He waved to the sea of shining eyes, giving each of the news anchors crowding his parlor their due. He mounted the podium, eyes on Edward.

“It is with a humble heart that I accept the trust placed in me by this great city to become your mayor. The people have spoken, and I have heard their call,” Oswald pronounced, beaming into flash after dizzying flash of the cameras. “And for my first act as mayor,” he went on, making sure that Edward was looking straight at him, “I would like to introduce you to my chief of staff, Mr. Edward Nygma!”

Edward didn't move for several seconds through the onset of applause, lips forming several abortive attempts at what might have been words. He finally latched onto the sight of Oswald's outstretched arm, making his way quickly to the podium as Oswald stepped aside to accommodate him.

Even as Oswald clapped Edward's shoulder, clasped Edward's hand, and then raised it above their heads in victory, Edward could not, through lowered inhibitions and sensory overload, settle on an expression for the cameras. Oswald caught Edward's eye, offering him reassurance, a point on which to focus. They weathered the deafening applause together.

“Why so surprised?” whispered Oswald, once they'd posed for a sequence of photographs and the crowd had begun to mill out of their makeshift campaign headquarters at Butch's bidding. "Surely _drink to forget_ doesn't apply at this stage of the evening."

“That was...an awfully rushed decision on your part, don't you think?” Edward challenged, looking relieved as the room emptied of everyone but the two of them. “You didn't even interview me. The media will demand to know my credentials.”

“Nonsense,” said Oswald, casting about for one of the bottles of champagne. “Your initial interview was more than sufficient for both positions. Besides, I had in mind from the start that you'd transition seamlessly from one into the other.”

“A little warning next time,” Edward sighed, relaxing into an exhausted smile. “I accept, of course.”

“The proposition I made you in the kitchen, Ed,” Oswald reminded him, drinking room-temperature _cuvée_ straight from the bottle. “I wasn't _literally_ suggesting that you become my wine buyer, although if you insist—”

“It's a hobby of mine,” Edward admitted, taking the bottle out of Oswald's hand, sniffing at the contents before deciding he approved of them sufficiently to take a swig. “One I ought to put to better use.”

They traded the bottle back and forth, pottering about until they'd managed to clear sufficient posters, confetti, and other detritus off the sofa to _sit_ on it. Oswald polished off the remainder, sagging against Edward's side. If Edward minded at all, he made no indication. He had something—no, some _things_ —that took up a lot of room clutched pensively in both his graceful hands.

“ _Those_ ,” said Oswald, with intensity of feeling, realizing Edward was studying their framed certificates side by side, “need to go somewhere. I hadn't decided whether to hang them or set them on a side table. Thoughts?”

Edward shot Oswald a teasing glance over the rims of his glasses, chin tilted low like he tended to do when he meant to say something clever.

“Sentimentalist that you are," he suggested, smirking as he held the handsome frames out at arms' length for them both to admire, "these should remain more at eye level. Don't you think? They'll draw compliments.”

“Side table it is,” Oswald cackled, clapping his hands. “Set them over there. Olga will see to it.”

“Generous of you,” Edward slurred, “to credit your housekeeper with such skills as clairvoyance.”

“I think mind-reading might be the trick you're after,” said Oswald, yawning. “Gosh, it's gotten _late_.” Unthinking, he placed his hand over Edward's against the sofa cushion, absently stroking it. "It's been such a very long day, but a satisfying one."

Edward froze, spine rigid, but he didn't pull away. He'd gone so still he didn't seem to be breathing.

“I meant what I said, Oswald,” he remarked distantly, his eyes fixed on the spot where Butch had pinned him. “About Arkham making us both stronger. Every word of it. If I'm to be your chief of staff, we'll be...put to the test. Repeatedly, even.”

“Ed, please don't worry about it now,” said Oswald, squeezing Edward's hand before releasing it.


	3. Salt

Edward flipped through page after page in the GCPD file, trying to ignore the television's low hum in favor of the sound of Oswald's stilted pacing. _Witnesses say the Red Hoods blamed Cobblepot for their actions_ , stated the news anchor's voice. He wondered if he ought to have joined Oswald in having a glass of the leftover dessert wine, but— _no_. He needed to keep a clear head.

“Someone is testing me, Ed,” Oswald seethed, bypassing the table again in sheer agitation. “They're thinking, oh, he's mayor now, he has to play by different rules," he spat, shuffling back in the opposite direction. “No, they'll see—when I'm roasting their entrails over a fire!”

 _Fire_ , Edward thought, nodding, scanning the report again. _I'd torture it out of them if I—_

“Perhaps I'm thinking about this all wrong,” he blurted, glancing up at Oswald in a moment of epiphany. “Perhaps this is not about you at all,” he went on. “What if this is about the statue?”

“Of _course_ it's about me!” Oswald shouted, gesturing wildly, the contents of his cup sloshing.

“Yes, you're probably right,” Edward sighed, catching the full extent of Oswald's spill out of the corner of his eye. “Oh dear,” he said, grabbing the salt shaker, rising so fast he scattered the papers.

Oswald grunted, staring down at his sleeve in disgust as Edward rushed to him. “Wonderful.”

“Oswald, take a breath,” said Edward, steadily, grabbing Oswald's arm. The wine had splattered his pristine white cuff ( _blood-like, always like blood_ ) and had begun to soak into his jacket.

“What are you doing?” Oswald demanded, mystified as Edward set to work sprinkling the salt.

“It's an old trick I learned in the lab,” Edward explained, hoping that the cadence of his voice would act as a calming distraction. “Most solvents have as their base...” He grabbed the nearest linen napkin off the table, dabbing business-like at the spots in which the salt had already done the job of absorption, his epiphany _explosive_. “I am the son of water, but if water touches me, I die,” he said, glancing wide-eyed up at Oswald, his hands stilling in thrilled anticipation. “What am I?”

“Again with the riddles,” Oswald sighed in exasperation, examining Edward's hasty handiwork.

“Salt,” Edward forged on, tidying up the remaining crusted spots, pleased to find he'd mitigated the damage. “Most people think of it as a food additive, but potassium salt is found in detergents, soaps...”

“What is your _point_ , Ed?” Oswald asked, bewildered at both the riddle and the salt's efficacy.

“I know where the Red Hoods are,” Edward replied, breaking into a grin. “I'll be back in a bit,” he said, racing back to the table. He tucked the red hood he'd confiscated earlier hastily into his jacket.

“Wherever you're going,” Oswald called as Edward rushed out of the room, “please be careful!”

Oswald's back-up driver—curious, that Butch was nowhere to be found—seemed happy enough with the folded hundred-dollar bill Edward palmed her through the window. It took nearly twenty minutes to reach the warehouse district, which was too long for Edward's liking. He arrived to find GCPD's investigation in full swing, displeased to note that Harvey Bullock was watching his every move.

Edward paced the perimeter methodically, noting each detail amiss, scuffing the filth-littered floor.

“All right, people, listen up!” Harvey barked. “It's happy hour! Finish up those reports, and let's call it a day!” He sauntered up to Edward. “Hey, uh...Ed. Even before you went crazy, I never liked you.”

“Your zipper's down,” said Edward, coolly, not even looking up from his intent perusal. It wasn't.

Realizing this, Harvey sneered. “Listen, Butch did us all a favor. Red Hoods go bye-bye, case closed.”

Edward finally shot him a disdainful glance, gesturing at the fallout. “Look at the way the bodies fell. It's as if they were just standing there, waiting to be killed,” he explained slowly, for the insufferable idiot's benefit. “Butch comes all the way in the room, but only one man pulled out a gun.” 

“I guess they weren't threatened,” replied Harvey, shrugging impatiently, glancing at his cheap watch.

“By a three-hundred-pound gorilla?” Edward demanded, fixing Harvey with an incredulous glare.

“Whose side are you on, anyway? _Hmmm_?” Harvey challenged. “No one's losing sleep over a bunch of dead crooks, least of all me.” He wandered off, hustling his crew. “I said, _wrap it up_!”

It was then that Edward spotted what he'd been looking for, neatly arranged along the back wall, pristine evidence in plain _fucking_ sight. He fingered the evening-wear: a puzzling thrill.

“What have we here?” he asked, his fingertips latching onto a flat black-and-white square box.

An examination of the contents during his ride back to the mansion turned up a business card, as if the clue had been planted for his benefit. Dear _God_ , but Gotham's criminal underlings were staggeringly dense. He sat back against the plush upholstery, dialing the tailor's number.

He regretted not having time to stop back at the mansion to collect Oswald, but what the proprietor had to tell him merited a visit to the premises in person. And what he saw there did _not_ disappoint. He left Fuji  & Sons Haberdashery with the square box clutched to his chest, mind racing.

With an unsteady hand, he dialed the number most recently added to his phone. Doing business with a hit-man other than those with whom he'd already dealt on Oswald's behalf was nerve-wracking.

Five minutes later, mouth gone dry with his smooth-talking gamble, Edward heard Zsasz say on the other end of the line, “Crazy son of a bitch, you must really be as hot for Penguin as they say. Done deal!”

“I'm not hot for anybody right now except Gilzean,” said Edward, trying to ignore the knot that had formed in his stomach. “By which I mean, I'd roast him myself if I could. The Sirens, ten minutes. Kitchen entrance. Help me pull this off, and I promise Oswald will pay you. Handsomely.”

“ _Oswald_ , huh,” Zsasz remarked airily. “Okie-doke, we'll nab Tabs,” he said, hanging up.

For the remainder of the ride, Edward sat with his eyes screwed shut and his arms folded tightly across his disquieted middle. _As hot for Penguin as they say_ , Zsasz echoed behind his eyelids, a flawlessly riveting hallucination—but what he heard was _as hot for Oswald_ , the voice his own.

“I can't think about that,” he said aloud, scrabbling at the seat next to him until he grasped the box.

On arrival at The Sirens, Edward exited the limousine on jittery legs and handed the driver another two hundred. Oswald had likely already arrived in the spare car, no questions asked, trusting Edward would show up on time for his big night. Sickening further, this time with guilt, Edward steeled himself, clutched the box to his chest, and slipped past Zsasz's man at the back entrance.

“We got her, Riddle-man,” said the thug, gruffly, as Edward made his way into the wings. “Waylaid next to the freezers, just like you asked. Zsasz an' a coupla others, too. They're waitin' for ya.”

“Thank you,” Edward muttered, realizing the man could no longer hear him. Tight-lipped, he straightened his jacket, settling into the shadows next to where the passage opened onto the stage.

Intermittently, from the mingling, festive din of the club's interior, Edward could hear Oswald's voice.

Like clockwork, Butch made his security rounds on Oswald's behalf. He strode into view after about three minutes, eyes widening when Edward stepped forward with a showman's smile.

“There he is, man of the hour,” Edward said caustically, advancing a step, slapping the box against Butch's chest. “I have a surprise for you, Butch.”

“Not in the mood,” Butch said, brandishing those four terse words like a threat. “What's in the box?”

“Open it,” Edward suggested, hoping that the sweat beginning to gather at his hairline wouldn't show.

Butch tore open the box, removing the offending item with bafflement. “Thanks. I already got one.”

“Oh, of course you do,” Edward taunted. “And you certainly wouldn't need this one, as it's so similar to your very _own_ pocket square. This is from the Red Hood crime scene. It turns out that your suit and the Red Hood suits were all made by the same tailor, Mr. Fuji.”

“Huh,” said Butch, raising his eyebrows in facsimile of being impressed. “That's some coincidence.”

“I thought so myself,” Edward replied, scanning Butch's face for the slightest of changes. “Which is why I called Mr. Fuji, and he said that a large man with a metal hand—not many of _those_ running around—bought all six of the suits, which means, _ta-da_ , you're the architect of the Red—”

Butch grabbed Edward, slamming him against the wall, almost knocking the breath from him.

Ignoring Edward's garbled, pathetic whimper, he seethed, “I should snap your neck right now.”

“You haven't heard my offer,” Edward choked, not even having to fake the delivery of this part as fully he had assumed he would. “We kill Penguin together,” he said, hating himself even for the lie.

Butch released him, chuckling. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “You're _his guy_.”

 _You must be as hot for Oswald as they say_ , drawled the mirror-version of Edward's voice.

“Oh _please_ ,” Edward spat, feeling sick enough to vomit, adamantly ignoring it. “You fell for that act? Yes, he broke me out of Arkham. _Very_ appreciative. But I was _not_ cut out to be number two.” He took a fortifying breath, pushing the ruse to its breaking-point. “I've simply been waiting for my moment, which you have graciously provided. How would you like to run Gotham with me?”

“The two of us... _working_ together?” asked Butch, so flabbergasted his guard was finally down.

“You have proven yourself far more cunning than I imagined,” said Edward, turning on the flattery. Under the circumstances, as untruths went, it wasn't one he minded giving voice. “Now, I assume this little drama of yours was meant to climax tonight,” he added, pulling the red hood out of his coat. “So, put on the hood, kill Penguin, and I'll help you escape. Tomorrow, we divide up the city.”

Butch blinked at in confusion, looking almost hurt. “You'd really turn on him, after all he did for you?”

Instinctively, Edward glanced out at the crowd just in time to see Oswald, across the shimmering table ornaments, chastely kiss the cheeks of a blonde socialite in gracious greeting. He swallowed.

“In a heartbeat,” Edward told Butch with a nod. _It's just a script, it's just a script, it's just—_

Butch smirked at him, the façade falling, already beginning to swagger away. “No,” he replied.

Edward caught him with a hand planted against Butch's broad chest, dizzy with disgust. He'd _missed_ it, missed the fact that Butch had been faking even more convincingly than Edward had himself.

“Okay,” he said, steeling himself, putting on the semblance of recovery. “Then I guess it's time for surprise number two,” he added, tugging Butch along until Butch shook him off and took the lead.

They emerged into the chilly brightness of thekitchen, where Edward was certain he was about to be fridged in the most literal sense possible.

 _And you'd deserve it_ , Kristen simmered somewhere in the agitated murk of his thoughts. _More than you deserve to fuck the bird._

Relief flooded Edward's overstimulated senses as Butch, undeniably cornered, halted in dismay.

“You got to Zsasz?” he asked plaintively, _devastated_ , staring over his shoulder at Edward.

“I got to Zsasz,” said Edward, more cheerfully than he felt, nodding to Zsasz. “And he got to Tabitha,” he continued, steeling his nerves for another sickening fib as Zsasz's henchmen brought the club's co-owner out at gunpoint. “Penguin's history. The question is, are _you_?”

Butch regarded the hood, which Edward offered him a second time, with complete and utter disgust.

“Fine,” he said, snatching it, shoving it down over his head. “But I ain't gonna play nice out there.”

“Nobody's asking you to,” said Edward, tartly, making sure Zsasz had his back before he retreated.

Through the shimmer-lit dimness of the crowd, Edward made his way toward Oswald as if in a fever-dream. The line between what was real and what was not shifted with every step he took. Distracted by a flash of feathers and purple onstage, he paused.

Barbara stepped up to the microphone, resplendent.

“Ladies, gentlemen, welcome to The Sirens!” she crooned. “Tonight, we're here to celebrate the Honorable Mayor Cobblepot. Our savior from the monsters, and the captain of our fair city. And now, the mayor would like to say a few words...”

Oswald turned as if he'd heard his name from a direction other than the stage, lighting up as Edward approached. “Ed, where've you _been_?” he whispered. “I've been looking for you all evening.”

“Oh, just tying up loose ends,” said Edward, clasping Oswald's shoulder in relief. Even that brief instant of contact grounded him, drew him ( _gasping great lungfuls_ ) out of the dark. “I just wanted to say...” He trailed off, leaning as close to Oswald as he dared. “Good luck.”

“Okay, thank you,” Oswald said with affection, releasing him as he headed for the stage.

Edward caught sight of Zsasz standing off to one side. He nodded, feeling almost as in control of his plan as he had at the outset. He watched Oswald kiss Barbara's cheek and step up to the microphone.

“Tonight is a celebration,” Oswald announced, “not of my victory, but of Gotham's. This is a new day!” 

_Just look at those pretty eyes_ , Kristen whispered. _No clunky lenses to get in the way_.

Edward moved closer to the stage, step by step, too spellbound to tell her off. Oswald _was_ a vision in that sharp black suit—no flashes of color, for once, to detract from his ethereal presence.

Gunshots shattered Edward's reverie. The ominous racket, sudden and deafening _screams_ , shouldn't have caught him unprepared. Cane-less onstage, Oswald nearly lost his footing in shock.

“I wouldn't celebrate, Mr. Mayor,” Butch growled beneath the hood, stalking past Edward up to the stage, not even bothering to disguise his voice. “Red Hoods ain't finished yet!”

 _You fucked up,_ mocked his mirror-voice from the void. _And now you'll never get to fuck—_

Edward broke his paralysis by sheer force of will, rushing up onto the stage. He grabbed Oswald's right arm, tugging him toward the wings. If he could get them both out of there before things got uglier, maybe, just _maybe_ it wouldn't all go to hell. How could he possibly have thought—

“ _Ed_!” Oswald shouted, terrified and off-balance, clinging to him. “What are you doing?”

“Wait!” Edward commanded, holding him up, wondering if perhaps this was precisely the trajectory he _hadn't_ known he needed. Instead of dragging Oswald off the stage, he planted his feet, propping Oswald up, shielding him with his free arm. “ _Trust me_ ,” he said under his breath. 

“Sorry, boss,” said Butch, drawing the gun that Zsasz had provided to him on Edward's behalf, or at least Edward _hoped_ it was the gun he'd instructed Zsasz to have ready. Failure to follow that instruction would've been unforgivable.

“ _Butch_?” Oswald blurted, still clinging to Edward's arm, squinting dazedly at the hood.

Butch pulled the trigger, and, for several terrifying seconds, Edward experienced Oswald's wide-eyed, staggering recoil as the ending he'd so desperately hoped to avoid. _Wine-stains like blood_.

Oswald withdrew his hands from his chest, finding them spotless. “Huh?” he blurted, turning to Edward.

Breathlessly gleeful with the realization that Zsasz had followed instructions, Edward said, “Oops!”

Entirely living up to his penchant for dramatic entrances, Zsasz shot Butch twice in the left calf.

 _When your schemes succeed, it's mostly luck,_ Kristen observed. _Learn when to quit_.

Ignoring that statement as thoroughly as he'd ignored the last several from the peanut gallery, Edward stepped up to the microphone. He extended one arm, determinedly shielding Oswald behind him. 

“The mayor, _our_ mayor,” he added for emphasis, placing a protective hand on Oswald's shoulder, “vowed that all of the Red Hoods would be destroyed. And now we have the real leader caught...red... _handed_ ,” he said, punctuating each word with a step until he was able to leap off the stage. He bent before Butch, who crouched panting beneath Zsasz's gun.

“You really thought I'd give you real bullets?” he scoffed in Butch's face. “You are an _idiot_.”

With that, Edward ripped off the hood, stepping back with a wide-armed flourish for all to behold.

“I will _kill_ you for this!” Oswald railed, stalking down off the stage even though the strain on his leg must have been unbearable. “After all that I've done for you! I gave you a job!”

“I gave you _everything_!” Butch shot back, getting right in Oswald's face, snarling in helpless fury. “I used to be somebody in this town, then you and that sniveling little son of a—” 

Oswald back-handed Butch so hard that Edward idly wondered if he'd broken a finger or two. He recovered himself quickly—all regal, vicious composure—and hopped back up onto the stage.

“I am shocked,” he began, “and _grieved_ , that one of my dearest friends has betrayed me. But let it be known that Oswald Cobblepot will prosecute anyone who threatens Gotham!”

Stationed at the foot of the stage, overcome with awe, Edward lowered his gaze out of deference.

Barbara, on the other hand, was having the time of her life. “Hear, hear!” she shouted, waving a champagne bottle in the air. She swigged from it as the crowd cheered, grinning madly. “Yeah!”

Permitting himself to succumb to a measure of relief, Edward watched Zsasz tug Butch to his feet.

“Upsy-daisy,” said the hit-man, eyes darting to the side as one of his henchmen staggered into view.

“Oh my God,” the man gurgled. To Edward's horror, there was a knife stuck in his back, and it was Tabitha who pushed him along until he fell in a heap just a few feet from where Edward stood.

“Showtime,” said Butch, and Edward realized only too late that Tabitha had provided a distraction.

Edward flung himself onto the stage just as Butch came barreling toward him. “Oswald, _move_!”

Butch caught Edward by the throat, knocking him flat on his back. The impact of skull against floor rattled Edward's teeth, causing him to momentarily black out. He blinked up at Butch, gasping. 

“I am gonna _enjoy_ this,” Butch said, mercilessly wrapping his hands around Edward's neck.

 _So am I_ , whispered a voice disturbingly close to Edward's ear, but he couldn't make out whose it was. The expert pressure Butch applied to both windpipe and musculature _burned_.

The last thing Edward heard before blacking out a second time was Barbara: “Best party ever!”

( _Impact, crack of skin-sheathed bone against glass. Fine spray of effervescence. Rain?_ )

Edward heaved a ragged gasp, eyes fluttering open. Someone _else_ had dragged him back.

“Ed!” Oswald was sobbing, bent over him, bent so low their bodies touched. “Ed, _oh_ —”

Edward coughed, smiling up at him as Oswald's palms cradled the back of his head. Edward's fingers found Oswald's lapels of their own volition. He couldn't have predicted around a third of what had happened, but _this_ —

“My poor, _poor_ dearest Ed,” Oswald murmured, stroking Edward's hair. “Let's get out of here.”

On the way out to the limousine, propping Oswald up as much as Oswald was propping _him_ , Edward dazedly took stock. One, he didn't have a concussion, and two, they had _survived_.

“Don't talk,” Oswald said, hustling Edward into the back with the driver's help. “Don't even try.”

“Okay,” Edward said, collapsing back against the upholstery as Oswald settled close beside him.

Neither of them spoke another word for the duration of the ride back to the mansion, although Oswald gripped Edward's right arm so tightly that it had all but lost circulation by the time they arrived.

“Let's get him inside,” Oswald told the driver, his concerned tone laced with cold, clipped authority.

Edward was grateful of the manhandling that ultimately got him situated on the sofa. A fire roared in the grate, presumably fed by Olga throughout the evening. He stared at the flames while Oswald and the driver stripped him out of his jacket and tie, their voices an indistinct hum.

Oswald's hands making short work of his shirt buttons—firm, attentive pressure down his chest—brought him back to reality. When Oswald helped him to shrug out of it, he didn't protest.

“Ed, don't move,” said Oswald, gently, draping Edward's shirt over his arm. “I'll be right back.”

Edward nodded, deciding that he could do worse than to stare at the flames a little while longer.

Oswald came back alone, which indicated that he'd dismissed the driver. He had something else draped over his arm now, something dark and shining. It threw off sparks in the firelight as Oswald draped it around his shoulders, guiding his arms expertly into the silken folds. _Ah_.

“Nobody's worn this in a while,” Oswald said apologetically, tugging the dressing gown into place around Edward, tying the belt at his waist with exacting care. “Sorry. It smells like cedar.”

“I like cedar,” Edward offered, but Oswald, faintly horrified, was busy examining Edward's neck.

“I can't believe this,” Oswald muttered, cupping Edward's cheek the moment he began to cough.

“I _can_ ,” Edward reassured him, scarcely able to talk. “Happens when you double-cross...”

Oswald's expression flat-lined for several seconds, but it reanimated as Oswald connected the dots.

“You are a reckless fool,” he told Edward, in naked admiration. “A reckless, _brilliant_ fool.”

Oswald left the room, leaving Edward alone with the blessed silence in his head for ten more minutes. 

When he returned, gait even more halting than it had been when they left the club, it was with a rattling gilt cup and saucer in hand. He approached Edward, extending the steaming peace offering.

“It's ginger tea with honey,” Oswald explained as Edward took the cup and saucer off his hands. He sat down next to Edward, so close their thighs touched, perching stiffly on the sofa cushion. “It's my mother's remedy for a sore throat. You sure you don't need a doctor?”

“No, I'm fine,” said Edward, fairly certain that was true, coughing as he took a sip of the tea. He reveled in the warmth along his thigh as much as he reveled in the heat coursing down his throat.

“I still don't understand why you didn't tell me what you were doing,” said Oswald, imploringly.

Edward set the cup and saucer down on the coffee table, turning his head to regard Oswald candidly.

“Your shock when seeing Butch had to be genuine,” he explained, finding the experience of speech a fraction less raw. “The people had to believe it, and they did. And, once again, you're the city's hero.”

Laughing might have been an inappropriate response under the circumstances, because Oswald's eyes glittered harshly at the sound of it. The mask of his face fell undone, _undone_.

“But you were almost killed,” he said, eyes lingering over whatever shade now graced Edward's throat.

“And you saved me,” Edward reminded him, feeling a bit more like himself. “ _Again_.” He laughed some more, instantly regretting it; Oswald was dangerously close to tears. “I hope you know, Oswald,” he said with sudden clarity, “I would do anything for you. You can always count on me.”

Oswald's gaze—piercing now, unshuttered—was unlike any look anyone had ever given Edward.

 _Incandescent_ , he thought, the tightness of earlier returning to his stomach. _Like a kiss_.

But instead of pressing his lips against Edward's, Oswald wrapped Edward tightly in his arms.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and Edward's eyes slid shut as one of Oswald's hands found its way between his shoulder blades. Memory of sharp impact, and then comfort—and then _this_.

Edward latched onto Oswald with all his strength, with the presence of mind he'd lacked earlier.

The poised pressure of Oswald's hand against his back shifted, melting reverently into a caress.

Edward opened his eyes, feeling all the tension drain out of them into exhaustion. Oswald was rocking him, _rocking_ him where they sat, fingertips working insistently into Edward's shoulder.

“You're hurt,” said Oswald, shakily, his breath hot against Edward's ear. He shivered, his wet cheek brushing against Edward's as he withdrew and sat back. “And I'm...sore, I admit. And very tired.”

Edward nodded, taking his first breath in what felt like hours, afraid to quantify the ache in his chest.

“Of course,” he said, brushing his fingers through Oswald's tears mixed with the ones he was startled to find he had shed. He touched his lips, tongue flicking to taste the brief sting. “I'll help you upstairs.”


	4. Crossroads

Oswald made his way downstairs barefoot, feeling spry enough to leave his cane behind. He'd pay later, perhaps, going without it two days out of three so far in a week, and chiefly in the form of Edward's vocal concern. He belted his dressing gown before reaching the landing, knowing, in spite of the language barrier, that Olga had strict and definite ideas concerning propriety. He respected that.

Comforted by the sounds of her bustling about in the kitchen, Oswald took his seat at the head of the dining table. He noted with satisfaction that Edward had already been there and gone for his customary pot of tea before heading to the office. In the week that had passed since their near-catastrophic evening at The Sirens, Oswald had made it clear to Olga that she was to serve him only the ginger and honey until his bruises faded. He had even painstakingly shown her how to prepare it.

The appearance of Edward's throat had improved drastically even in the past forty-eight hours, but Oswald wasn't about to take any chances. He'd picked apart the subtleties of his intense concern through a haze so fierce it plagued him like fever. Edward was incandescent, his world _entire_.

Now that the fever had broken, his analysis was complete. There was no room to question fate.

“What a beautiful morning,” Oswald said cheerfully, hoping that Olga would hear. She didn't need to understand what he was saying to know that he was there, although she had anticipated his timing with enough accuracy to have already brought out his orange juice and hard-boiled egg. “Sun is shining, birds are singing. They say that fortune favors the brave,” he added, inclining his head as she strode into the room bearing the remainder of his breakfast. “They have that saying in your country, Olga? 

“ _Ya ne ponimayu_ ,” she said brusquely, setting the condiment tray and fruit plate before him.

“I don't know what you're saying,” replied Oswald, snorting in faint amusement. Her tendency to speak Russian to him as adamantly as he spoke English to her was as encouraging as it was irritating; stubborn-mindedness often pointed to a strong constitution, and the last thing he needed was help that might be rattled by what they saw. And, heaven knew, Olga had seen a _lot_.

“ _Vash zavtrak gotov_ ,” she told him, putting her usual finishing touches on the tasty spread.

“It's not important,” Oswald went on, grateful of a witness to what he was about to say even if the words themselves would fall on uncomprehending ears. He was fond of Olga in his way, and she deserved his confidence. “What is important is that I have found someone. What good is love if it's one-sided? I have no choice but to confess my feelings to Ed.”

“ _Da_ ,” Olga seemed to agree, efficiently whipping the linen napkin open and across his lap.

“Now that, I understand,” said Oswald, with a sense of genuine affection. “It means yes. My mother taught me that. She used to tell me—life only gives you one true love, Oswald; when you find it, run to it. So that is what I'm going to do,” he confessed, feeling vulnerable, yet satisfied for having articulated his course of action. He sighed, looking Olga up and down where she stood to one side with her eyes fixed on her handiwork.

“I'm also going to enroll you in an ESL program,” Oswald continued, hoping to lighten the mood, but still meaning it. “You really should learn the language if you're going to work here.”

Olga gave him a displeased look, pointedly lifted the empty tray, and left the room in irritation. She could likely understand as many scattered fragments of Oswald's monologues as he could understand of her clipped responses. For the time being, it was sufficient—at an agreeable impasse. He'd have Edward research ESL programs later.

Oswald poured himself what was left of Edward's tea, never mind that it had gone lukewarm.

Preparations for the day went more slowly than they might have without Edward on hand to assist, but, once he'd finished breakfast, Oswald made his way back upstairs and dressed with pensive precision. Indigo tie with swirl-detail picked out in delicate gold stitching, blood-red pocket square. He knew now which colors and patterns caught Edward's eye, knew he treated them as intricate puzzles.

As an afterthought, grudgingly, he retrieved his cane from the nightstand. There'd be no use in upsetting Edward by going without, not today of all days. Edward needed to know that his advice and concern were valued, _respected_ , and it behooved Oswald to scatter clues carefully.

Oswald arrived in Edward's office just as he was handing an important errand off to Ms. Searle.

“Leave this outside Nicky the Nail's place,” Edward instructed as Oswald began his approach, handing over the custom explosive with attractive precision. “Knock twice. Light it, and then run.” 

“Okay,” said Searle, hesitantly, but she bore away the parcel and envelope in her other hand without any fuss. She didn't spare Oswald a glance as he passed her, perhaps too frightened by her cargo.

“Good morning, Mayor Cobblepot,” Edward greeted Oswald as he stepped up to Edward's desk, mindful that Searle might still be within earshot. He rose with two stapled packets in hand.

“Good morning to you, my chief of staff,” said Oswald, distracted by the figure Edward cut in the dim room. Dark tie, darker suit, and a touch of subdued pleasure in ticking items off his to-do list. Oswald wanted to embrace him, but Edward offered Oswald the packets before he could do so.

“Here are your schedules for the day,” Edward announced primly, handing off one, and then the other. “This covers your duties as mayor, and this as kingpin of the underworld.”

“You really are settling into your role here, aren't you, Ed?” asked Oswald, too taken with the sight before him to spare the packets more than a glance. Bite of ginger on his tongue. It _burned_.

“And yet I...still have so much to learn from you,” said Edward, tone undershot with shy deference.

“ _Oh_ ,” was all Oswald could manage, overcome, glancing down as Edward cleared his throat.

“I came up empty tracking down Butch,” said Edward, his expression somber. Concerning, how effortlessly emotive he seemed under the circumstances—as if he'd pulled out all the stops in preparation for delivering this report. “Somehow that one-handed ape managed to disappear. I suspect he's hiding with his old crew.” He bit his lip, glancing away. “I'm sorry for letting you down.”

Oswald shook his head, leaning forward, and it took all of his willpower not to startle Edward with a touch as he regained his composure.

“You have done nothing of the sort,” he insisted, watching Edward break gradually into the beginnings of a subdued smile. “I would be...lost without you. In fact, _um_ ,” said Oswald, swallowing at the suddenness with which Edward, all intent regard, turned to face him. “There is something that I need to tell you. Something very important.”

Seven seconds. Seven _seconds_ his heart hammered through hesitation, and, even as his mind refused to reach an agreement with his tongue, Oswald counted every last one of them.

“What is it, Oswald?” Edward finally asked, eyes expressive in spite of how even his tone had gone.

Oswald opened his mouth, knowing that this must be part of Edward's experience through every waking moment. He attempted to speak, forming a single word on silent repeat. _I, I—_

“You know what?” he finally managed, faking levity, awash in the failure of losing his nerve. “I forget. In and out of my head, just like that. Don't you hate that when that happens?”

“That never happens to me,” said Edward, his inflection flatter and darker than before, fingers twisting together nervously where otherwise they lay calm folded in front of him.

“You know what?” said Oswald, hating himself for his false cheer when Edward was so obviously lost in the struggle to interpret what had just happened, “I believe that. So, uh, where are we off to first?”

Edward swallowed, recovering his veneer of pleased efficiency too fast. “PS 134,” he said, his cadence faltering. “You're touring a school. Press will be there, so we better get a move on,” he added, taking up the relevant folder, walking stiffly past Oswald. His posture radiated sheer turmoil.

“Great,” said Oswald, hanging back a moment, berating himself with every ounce of self-loathing he could muster. “I love children,” he muttered, smacking himself in the forehead with Edward's agendas.

During their ride to PS 134, the tension between them lessened somewhat. Edward sat as close to Oswald in the back seat of the limousine as he had since their run-in at the club, a comforting routine, and Oswald left his hand invitingly open in the scant space between them on the seat.

Edward rested his hand alongside Oswald's, letting his pinkie brush against Oswald's thumb.

“I know you won't want to hear this,” he said, “but you should take your cane. The school's accessibility isn't up to code. There's a single elevator between the basement and second floors—which is a staggering inefficiency of construction, if you ask me. Beyond that, we'll be taking the stairs.”

“I'd rather not,” said Oswald, fighting the impulse to let his petulance show. He couldn't risk unsettling Edward more than he already had. “Just this once. I'll be _very_ good for the rest of the day.”

“You left it behind in your office for every one of yesterday's appointments,” replied Edward, tartly. “That was _four appointments_ , and you were on your feet for all of them.” He lifted his hand, letting his pinkie skim the tip of Oswald's thumb before planting his hand squarely on top of Oswald's—palm to palm, entwining their fingers with shocking intensity. “Please,” he said.

“It stays in the car,” Oswald squeaked, too startled to interpret the clash between Edward's gesture and Edward's irritated glare. If this was payback for Oswald's failure to make his intentions clear, then it was certainly working. He cleared his throat, squeezing Edward's hand. “ _Please_.”

“Whatever,” said Edward, resigned, dropping Oswald's hand on the seat. “I'll bring your painkillers.”

 _I don't deserve this man_ , Oswald thought as they pulled up to the school. _How could I_.

The tour of grades one and two went smoothly enough, and Edward kept closer pace than usual at Oswald's side. If they'd been in less formal company, Oswald almost wondered if each passed-off-as-involuntary brush of Edward's shoulder, elbow, _wrist_ against his own meant that Edward would insist that Oswald take his arm. Edward's mixed signals were nothing short of torture, and they were nothing less than Oswald deserved after so spectacular a failure of communication. 

Principal Henderson led them off the elevator and up yet another dismal hall, which thankfully opened into a marginally brighter area—the school library, and Oswald couldn't help but notice the way Edward's eyes flicked across row after row of spines—where around twenty children were seated at a table. The activity in which they were engaged involved an mess of paper and scented markers.

Beside Oswald, Edward wrinkled his nose for a fraction of a second, so endearing it was painful.

“This is our third grade class,” Principal Henderson explained, gesturing proudly at the students.

“How many more grades do we have to visit?” Oswald asked Edward under his breath. His self-resentment and distraction at the charm of Edward's deliberate contrariness made him cross.

“This is a K-through-twelve building,” said Edward, his misery almost as palpable as Oswald's.

“Twelve?” echoed Oswald, incredulous, nonetheless relieved by the grim set of Edward's lips as he mumbled _mmm-hmmm_. “We don't have to see every single class, do we?”

Before Edward could respond with some other veiled retort, Principal Henderson said, with anticipation just shy of cloying, “Mayor James used to read to the children.”

“Aubrey James is illiterate, ma'am,” replied Oswald, at the end of his tether. “It's well documented.”

“Perhaps we should move on,” Edward cut in brightly, his fingertips grazing Oswald's wrist like lightning.

Oswald cast his eyes about the room to distract himself from how hard the touch had hit, noticing, for the first time, that there was a dark-haired boy seated apart from the others at a smaller round table.

“What's wrong with that boy there?” he asked Principal Henderson, pointing in the boy's direction.

“That's Luke,” said the Principal, tone implying apology for the child's existence. “He's new here.”

With resolve, his leg already starting to play havoc, Oswald made his way toward Luke's table. He almost ran into a blonde girl in the process, stopping short with both hands in the air. Edward urged him on, encouraging, with the briefest press of two fingers at Oswald's shoulder blade.

 _Tonight_ , Oswald thought, nearly stumbling at the shiver down his spine. _I'll tell him_. 

“Hello, Luke,” he said kindly to the boy, bending forward to examine Luke's elaborate, imaginative drawing. “I am Mayor Cobblepot. Why aren't you playing with the other children?”

“What if they don't like me?” asked Luke, dubiously, his quick, pale eyes drifting up to meet Oswald's.

“Well, how would you ever know if you don't give it a try?” Oswald asked, smiling as benignly as he could. “And if they don't like you,” he said, making sure Henderson was out of earshot, leaning forward on the table, “wait for them to turn their backs—and push them down the stairs.”

Luke broke into a conspiratorial grin, as if he couldn't believe a grown-up had given him such advice. He nodded, an implicit promise to take it to heart, and dashed off to try joining the others.

“Little guy needed a push,” said Oswald, nervous as Edward inquisitively approached. “That's all.”

The spread of Edward's admiring smile had an uncharacteristic ease to it, as if he'd forgotten his ire.

“I continue to be in awe of you, Oswald,” he said, sparing one more curious glance at the children.

“Ed,” Oswald said, coaxing back Edward's attention with gravitas-inflected care. “There is something I would like to discuss in a more private setting. Shall we say dinner at the mansion? Eight o'clock?”

Still smiling—seeming tense, but hopeful—Edward nodded. “I'll pick us up a nice bottle of wine.”

The remainder of the tour went smoothly, if infuriatingly, because Edward retreated into his role as conscientious aide for the remainder. He didn't touch Oswald again until the time came for them to part ways: Oswald moving on to a meeting at city hall, Edward departing to run menial errands.

“Your cane,” Edward said, hustling the driver aside, helping Oswald into the limousine. “Please?”

“Fair is fair,” Oswald sighed, reluctant to let go of Edward's attentive, capable hands. “I promise.”

It was nearly one o'clock by the time Oswald got back to city hall. He was five minutes late to his meeting on account of having to text Olga his painfully detailed instructions. Thankfully, she had no compunctions about using Google Translate. It saved them the necessity of an interpreter.

The meeting dragged interminably, Oswald's focus shot with the intensity of his daydreaming. If everything went the way that he hoped—and, of course, if Edward were amenable—he wouldn't be retiring alone that night. He could scarcely keep his attention fixed on Searle's PowerPoint presentation, not when he was imagining leading Edward along behind him to bed.

When he got home two hours later, the mansion smelled of so many different dishes that Oswald wondered if he'd overdone it. He was reasonably sure that Olga had even _added_ to the lineup.

Oswald made his way upstairs, his leg aching. Stripped down to nothing, stretched out in his nest of covers, slept fitfully for an hour and a half. Shivered his way through fraught scenarios. _Fever_.

Just after seven, finding his leg in much better shape than when he'd lain down, he took a scalding shower before piecing his wardrobe together. Black jacket, white shirt, silk paisley scarf at his throat.

There was also the matter of music, which Oswald wasn't about to leave to chance. He rummaged through his record collection _and_ Edward's, dissatisfied with every option until he ran across a jazz compilation comprised of tracks with no words. Edward deserved something unobtrusive.

Eight fifteen found him seated alone at the head of the table with a crackling fire behind him, his right hand poised unsteadily on his cane. Even though he was sitting down, having it nearby felt crucial.

“Ed,” he said, taking a breath, eyes fixed on the empty chair far across the expanse of lavish food. “A man comes to a crossroads in his life, and he has to make a choice,” he tried, cringing inwardly at his habitual formality; Edward was bound to find him ridiculous. “Does he choose safety and cowardice, or does he opt for courage and risk everything?” he continued, feeling the color drain from his face at the prospect of Edward's reaction. “I choose courage,” he insisted, the register of his voice waxing raw and sincere even to his own perception. “What I'm trying to say is—” he swallowed, finding there wasn't enough air in the room “—thing I've been wanting to tell you all day long is, I love you.”

Seven more seconds passed in which he bit his nails, fiddled with his cane, switched the positioning of several pieces of glassware. Ten seconds saw him second-guessing the wisdom of having Edward's place-setting so far from his. He got up, hobbled his way to the far end of the table, and brought the dishes back piece by piece. He arranged Edward's setting in front of the chair at his left elbow.

Task complete, he removed his phone from his pocket and checked the time. Twenty minutes past.

 _Please be all right_ , he thought, flipping it open, shakily dialing Edward's number. _Please answer._


	5. Sweet

The remainder of Edward's day alone was _not_ enjoyable. In fact, it was such an irreparable disaster that he almost preferred the cacophony of mixed signals he'd been getting from Oswald all fucking afternoon. 

It had, in contradictory fashion, hurt him to see Oswald at such a loss. _He_ was supposed to be the one who could scarcely get his tongue past his teeth on matters of heart unless he framed them as a riddle. _He_ was supposed to be the one—

 _Starting to get the big picture, Eddie?_ asked his mirror-voice as he left the post office and stalked back to the car. _How's that ginger treating you?_

“Fuck off,” Edward said, slamming the back door, startling the driver. He imagined honey to soothe the burn he'd just gulped down, hoping that such intrusions wouldn't continue for the rest of the night.

The driver turned to blink at him, more perplexed than anything else. “Rough day, Mr. Nygma?”

“Not you,” he sighed, setting his briefcase aside on the back seat. “Yes. Sorry. What's the nearest wine shop we can reach without hitting traffic?”

“Jardine's,” said the driver, helpfully, “but we're still gonna hit traffic. Seven thirty on a game night.”

Edward rolled his eyes, not wanting to think about Gotham's insufferable sports-team fan contingent.

“Then get me there as quickly as you can,” he said in annoyance. “Oswald's expecting me for eight.”

“Anything for the boss's favorite,” said the driver, her tone comfortingly impassive. “Buckle up.”

Even with the driver's blatant disregard for the speed-limit, it still took them fifteen minutes to reach Jardine's. Edward exited the car in agitation, hoping they wouldn't be ticketed for parking along the curb. He supposed that being one of the mayor's drivers might grant immunity.

The jangling of the bell above the door mocked him as soundly as the neon-heart sign in the window.

 _Here's the real test, Riddle-man,_ his mirror-voice said ominously. _Get ready to choose._

“It's _wine_ ,” he said under his breath, bypassing a blonde woman with her back turned in order to get at the section he wanted. European wines, none of that New World swill. He picked up two bottles of French red, weighing one against the other. Alcohol levels, tasting notes, sulfites—

“Impossible to pick the perfect bottle, isn't it?” said the woman, inexplicably approaching him.

“Well, it all depends on region and vintage,” he said, vaguely perturbed, putting one of the two bottles back. “Of course, you have to consider the wine pairing,” he continued, turning to look at her.

 _Just wine?_ Kristen taunted, the sound of her voice as cruelly familiar as the woman's features. 

“Miss Kringle?” he said, skirting that terrible line between hallucination and fact. He stared, struggling reconcile this flesh-and-blood manifestation. _Ghosts aren't real, ghosts aren't real, ghosts aren't—_

“No,” replied the woman, warm and regretful. “Oh, no. My name's Isabella. _Um_ —I'm sorry to bother you; I don't usually talk to people.” She squinted. “There's just—something about you.”

“No, please. There's...” Edward swallowed, caught between what he knew was true and the conundrum before him. “There's no need to apologize. You just...” He thought of the clock he was racing, of Oswald waiting. “You remind me of someone that I used to know. A long time ago.”

 _Here's where it gets tricky_ , interjected his mirror-voice, disarmingly neutral. _Tick-tock_.

“You struggle to regain me,” said Isabella, quietly, stepping so close that he could smell her perfume ( _jasmine, wisteria, plum_ ). “When I'm lost, you struggle to obtain me. What am I?”

 _Ghosts aren't real?_ Kristen whispered, a flawless extension of Isabella's voice. _But what is?_

“Time,” replied Edward, automatically, unable to resist answering. “I'm Edward. Edward Nygma.”

 _You're not the solution_ , observed his mirror-voice, still detached. _You're the problem_.

Isabella's eyebrows knit, as if his response hadn't satisfied her. She was intently perusing his face.

“I'm sorry,” Edward said, turning his attention back to the bottle at hand. _Tick-tock_ , he thought, trying to focus on the riddle's underlying crux. _You're the problem_. “I'm running late.”

“Is this a romantic dinner?” asked Isabella, kindly, the turn of her eyes suggesting an apology.

“Yes,” said Edward, tapping the label of the bottle. “No. I don’t know. Maybe. Hard to tell.”

Isabella nodded, taking it off his hands. “What kind of wine does your partner tend to prefer?”

 _Partner_ , Edward realized, reeling as she checked the ABV. _Oswald is my partner_.

“Insufferably sweet,” he admitted, breaking helplessly into a grin. “Not unlike he can be at times.”

Isabella smiled at him, her lips quirking. “Then you won’t want _this_. What a lucky guy.”

“If you mean me, then yes,” Edward agreed. “I’ve been lucky. If you mean _him_ , not so much,” he muttered, rubbing the side of his face. “I’m standing here chatting with you, late already.”

“Well, these decisions take time,” Isabella said wistfully. She set the Burgundy aside, running her finger along the dusty edge of the shelf. “Does he prefer red or white? What is he serving?”

“Slight preference for red, but he’ll drink anything as long as he likes the taste,” Edward said, his distress at running behind growing almost unbearable. “The other night, it was Roederer Cristal straight from the bottle. He didn’t mention what was on the menu tonight.”

Isabella’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of such an expensive vintage. She took a step closer to Edward, peering at him head-on before tipping her head so she could look at him in profile. Her jaw worked once, twice—and then she covered her mouth, taking a step back.

This situation was not the riddle that either of them had bargained for. Edward exhaled in sheer relief.

 _You're dangerous to anyone but each other_ , Kristen whispered. _Oswald, not me. Do you see?_

“I’ve seen you on television,” said Isabella, her own realization forming with something like scarcely-concealed horror. “Several times, in fact, and that's just this week. I knew your name sounded familiar. You’re the _mayor’s_ —”

 _All I had to do was hold you over the flames for a while_ , said Edward's mirror-voice, smugly.

“I guess that footage from The Sirens the other night _was_ kind of salacious,” Edward admitted.

Isabella laughed, short and bitter. “Oh, I’m not about to mess with _that_ ,” she said. “No way.”

“This does very little in the way of helping me decide what wine to select,” said Edward, lips pursed.

“You’d have to be crazy to date him,” Isabella said, hard-eyed, abruptly more Kristen than herself.

“I’ve already lived with him off and on, so there’s no use in splitting hairs,” said Edward, cheerfully, squashing down his irritation so that it didn’t tip into rage. “Selbach-Oster Zeltinger Sonnenuhr,” he said, showing off his flawless pronunciation, pulling the Riesling Spätlese off the shelf. “They say last year’s vintage was _spectacular_. His mother was half German. He might appreciate that.”

Edward's phone went off in his breast pocket, startling them both. He fumbled it out one-handed, flipping it open with his thumb. He wasn't in the habit of assigning individualized ring-tones, but the minute variation from his usual one that he'd assigned to _this_ particular number was key.

“Hello, Oswald,” he said, studying the bottle's stately label again. “Will a German white suffice?”

“Oh, _Ed_ ,” said Oswald on the other end of the line, alarm giving way to relief. “I was starting to worry. It's not like you to be anything less than punctual, and it's twenty past. Are you all right?”

“I ran into some difficulty selecting the wine,” admitted Edward, abashedly. “First, I considered a couple of red Burgundies, but then I spotted what I think might be the _perfect_ Riesling. What are we having?”

“I might have...had Olga go overboard, somewhat,” said Oswald, suddenly self-conscious. “Roasted pork is the main attraction, but now I'm looking at all these sides—potatoes, carrots, stuffed red peppers, that custard pie of hers you like—and realizing we'll have leftovers for two weeks.”

“I'll arrange to have whatever we don't eat taken to work,” Edward reassured him. “For the staff.”

“You think of everything,” Oswald marveled, tension easing from his voice. “Riesling will pair fine.”

“See you soon.” Edward hung up, beaming at his selection. “Oswald is so particular,” he said fondly.

“Did you even hear me?” Isabella asked. “I said that you’d have to be _crazy_ to consider—”

“I have a certificate,” snapped Edward, cradling the bottle to his chest, heading for the register.

 _Slayer of regrets, old and new,_ sing-songed Kristen. _Sought by many, found by few. What am I?_

“Solid choice,” said the young clerk, fixing her waxed, feathery hair. It was eerily like Oswald’s.

“Redemption,” Edward replied, grinning broadly as he handed her the precious bottle. “I know.”


	6. Courage

Once Edward had hung up, Oswald spent a great deal longer than seven seconds staring at his phone.

Which was exactly how Olga found him: standing next to the table, where the food continued its downward trajectory to room-temperature, with one hand shaking on his cane and the other doing its level best not to drop the hand-set. She tutted under her breath and took it from him.

“Mr. Kapelput,” she said, pronouncing his name the same way that Oswald's mother would have.

“Yes, Olga?” said Oswald, distantly, glancing at her through the burning in his eyes. “What is it?”

“Your boyfriend come home now,” she enunciated, setting his phone down on the table. “I hear car.”

“Well, he's not really my—” Oswald goggled at her, swiping under one eye after the other with a deliberate fingertip, wondering if he'd left horrendous smudges. “Were you listening to me?”

“ _Da_ ,” Olga sighed, scanning the table's contents with distaste. “Dinner bad now. Not like romance.”

“The food,” said Oswald, hastily, jumping out of his skin at the sound of the doorbell, “will be fine.”

“Why not use key?” Olga asked, shrugging, starting to walk away. “Take your seat. I go let Edward in.”

Oswald wasn't certain which aspect of the situation he found more disorienting—the fact that Olga could already speak more English than she'd let on, or the fact that, like she'd pointed out, Edward had chosen to ring the doorbell like a solicitous suitor.

He sat down, relieved to take weight off his leg.

“Have the rest of the night off!” Oswald called gratefully after Olga. “Clean-up can wait until morning!”

Olga shouted something incomprehensible back. There was the sound of the door opening, and then—

Edward walked into the room with his briefcase in one hand and a long, handled gift-bag in the other.

“Sorry I'm late,” he began, setting the case to one side, approaching Oswald with the wine. “Did you know that Olga speaks some English? She greeted and wished me good evening. Wild, huh?”

Oswald took the bag off Edward's hands, staring up at him in a relieved daze. “Wild,” he agreed.

“They've included one of those little plastic corkscrews in there,” said Edward, helpfully, pulling out the chair at Oswald's elbow. He sat down, studying the spread. “Overboard was an understatement.”

“Why didn't you just use your key?” Oswald asked, frozen, just holding the bagged bottle in his lap.

“Ceremony. Oswald, are you all right?” Edward asked, taking the parcel off Oswald's hands. He removed the bottle in one graceful motion, tipping the corkscrew into his hand. Oswald watched him assemble it and use the sharp point to trim through the foil covering the cork, after which he twisted the implement into place with ruthless efficiency. “You look pale, and your, um...”

Edward paused halfway through working out the cork, gesturing as politely as he could at his own eyes.

“Allergies,” Oswald said, busying himself with setting their glasses side by side so Edward could pour.

“Maybe the flue isn't properly open,” he suggested, filling both nearly to the brim. “Ash would do it.”

Oswald closed his eyes tightly, realizing he'd fallen into the same trap as the one into which he'd stumbled, cowardly, that morning. He opened them to find Edward offering him a glass.

“Thank you, Ed,” he said quietly, recovering himself sufficient to take the wine. “It's been a long—”

Using his left hand, Edward caught Oswald's against his right where it was curled around the stem.

“It's taking every ounce of my willpower _not_ to turn this into a riddle about making a toast,” said Edward, words emerging in a stilted rush, “so please tell me what this is all about before you drink yourself into a rambling mess. _Please_. Oswald, I want to think that this—but, but I—”

The wine-splash was cool at Oswald's wrist, a wake-up call. Oswald felt the last of his fear wash away.

“I had a speech prepared,” he said quietly, disentangling Edward's hand from his own. He took the glass, ignoring the damage he'd done to his sleeve, and indicated that Edward should take up his. “But I somehow don't think this is a time _or_ place for speeches. Will you permit me the toast?”

Edward nodded, wordlessly raising his glass so that its rim was a mere inch from touching Oswald's.

“I'm in love with you,” Oswald told him, forcing the thought to find breath. “I want us to share this.”

Edward's only response was to clink his glass off the side of Oswald's, gulping down about half of its contents as fast as he possibly could. He blinked rapidly at Oswald over the rim, expression owlish.

Oswald took a lingering sip from his own glass to combat the bile that had risen harshly in his throat.

“Can I kiss you, at least?” he asked, aiming for harmless flippancy, finding the situation surreal. Doubtless his heart was about to be charmingly, cryptically broken. “Before you change your mind?”

“Why would I do that?” Edward asked, setting down his glass, folding and unfolding his free hand against the edge of the table. His wide eyes behind his glasses were still unreadable. “You can.”

Oswald still couldn't believe what he was hearing, but only a fool would run in the opposite direction when fate had a face as captivating as this. He set down his glass and scooted forward in his chair, closing the short space between them. Edward's cheek was smooth beneath Oswald's palm.

Edward sighed into Oswald's mouth, falling forward into the contact—his fingers fretful at Oswald's wrist, gradually creeping up to cover the back of Oswald's hand, a comforting anchor.

_I did this for love_ , Oswald thought, breath hitching as he turned his hand awkwardly to clasp Edward's. _All for Gotham, all for us. I found you in the chambers of this city's spacious heart._

Oswald let his tongue brush against Edward's as he finally withdrew. “It's no riddle, admittedly,” he demurred, their noses bumping, “but I can see that you're stumped.”

“On the contrary,” replied Edward, flustered, touching his lips in wonder. “I want to solve you.”

As present company went, that was as blatant a declaration of intent as Oswald could hope for.

“I would have made love to you right there by the fire if not for those bruises around your neck,” said Oswald, quietly, his eyes flicking over to the hearth before meeting Edward’s gaze.

Edward blinked at him—dazed, cheeks still flushed with the boldness of Oswald’s kiss—seemingly aroused at the mere suggestion.

“Would you make love to me now?”

Oswald, nearly choking on a sip of wine, set down his glass and pressed the linen napkin to his mouth.

“Upstairs,” he said. “Olga will clear this even though I said not to. We should at least have dessert—”

Edward leaned close and kissed Oswald, mirroring with exacting lips and tongue what Oswald had done moments before.

“I don't _want_ dessert,” he muttered against Oswald’s chin.

Oswald nudged at Edward’s jaw until Edward got the message and tilted his head, mouth opening eagerly this time. Oswald lightly bit Edward’s lower lip, pleased at Edward’s immediate shiver.

“You make a compelling argument,” Oswald conceded. “Does that mean I can tempt you upstairs?”

“Let’s be clear on this,” said Edward, rising, tugging Oswald along. “ _I_ tempted _you_.”

“You in your dressing gowns and slippers at breakfast,” Oswald teased giddily, following him out.

Edward didn’t say a word until they reached the top of the stairs, turning to face Oswald with a heart-stopping look of uncertainty.

“Temptation, originator thereof. Does that mean my room or yours?”

Seized by the overwhelming urge to crush Edward to him and never let go, Oswald reached up and removed Edward’s glasses instead. He tucked them in Edward’s breast pocket, letting his touch linger.

“I’m going to make this as clear as I can, Ed,” he said. “I want you to come to bed with me.”

“I want that,” Edward replied, lips twitching at the corners. “I want that _very_ much.”

The master bedroom was closest to begin with, door invitingly ajar. In roughly eight hours, Oswald had rehearsed this moment so many times that leading Edward across the threshold felt like an afterthought. He propped his cane against the foot of the bed, about to remove his jacket, but Edward was already in Oswald’s space, so close their chests almost touched, his hands on Oswald’s lapels.

“Going off-script here,” he muttered, pushing Oswald’s jacket back and off his shoulders, tugging when it reached Oswald’s wrists, letting it fall to the floor. “What did the paperclip say to the magnet?”

“That sounds dangerously like a joke,” Oswald cautioned, attempting to keep a straight face, but his pulse had escalated to such a degree that he could only stare into Edward’s eyes, breathless.

Edward leaned forward, hands braced on Oswald’s shoulders, lips brushing the shell of Oswald’s ear.

“I find you _very_ attractive,” he answered, tone low and thrilling and slightly dangerous. 

Lacking any previous experience, Oswald wouldn’t have taken himself for the hasty-to-undress sort, but having two pairs of hands on the job made it easy to succumb. The more layers they shed between them, the more diffident Edward’s demeanor became—down to underthings, delayed by frantic, intermittent kisses. He wanted to hold Edward, to reassure him.

Oswald hopped onto his unmade bed and drew Edward forward by the wrists, scooting back to indicate that Edward should follow. “Come here,” he said gently, once he’d reached the pile of pillows against the headboard, patting the space next to him on the mattress. “Lie down beside me.”

Edward crawled forward on his hands and knees, settling against Oswald’s side, eagerly compliant.

“I can’t see you very well,” he said, tugging at Oswald’s wrists, another flawlessly mirrored gesture.

“Then let’s take care of that,” Oswald said, swallowing hard. He realized this was the point at which he’d need to take initiative, what with Edward a vibrating bundle of nerves. He stripped out of his undershirt and boxers, not meeting Edward’s eyes until he set his hands at Edward’s waist.

Edward, lips slightly parted, nodded once. He let his fingertips brush against Oswald, an invitation.

“Lift up,” said Oswald, carefully removing Edward’s underwear. Those long legs, the expanse of his chest—he was as guilty of staring as the man at his mercy. “Thank you,” he said, breath quickening as Edward touched him again, this time a teasing brush of his knuckles. “What now?”

“I was lying,” said Edward, breath high and fast, pulling Oswald against him. “I'm _hungry_.”

Oswald couldn’t process the enormity of Edward’s gesture, not when his entire world had narrowed to the feel of skin against skin.

Edward pushed up against him with a huff, shattering Oswald's reverie.

“You feel marvelous,” Oswald reassured him, settling between Edward's shakily parted thighs. “You have nothing to worry about,” he murmured, stroking from Edward's hips down to his knees.

“We didn't—I—” Edward's focus scattered as they rocked against each other, one hand flying up to cradle the back of Oswald's neck. For the briefest of seconds, Edward's fingers clenched far too tight, pulling the hair at Oswald's nape. “Didn't get this far. I wasn't naked.”

Abruptly understanding what the disjointed statement in combination with the gesture meant, Oswald brushed his thumb across Edward's lower lip.

“I've never been, either,” he said, obliging when Edward surged up for a kiss. “You're here now. It's all right.”

Edward nodded tautly, his head falling back against the pillows. He was so hard against Oswald's belly that it was a miracle he hadn't come. It was a miracle _neither_ of them had.

“Would you like my mouth on you?” Oswald asked, stroking Edward's cheek. He kept a soothing, steady pace between them, mesmerized by the flutter of Edward's eyelids. “Or is this all right?”

“You'd—you'd do that?” Edward gasped, his fingertips digging into Oswald's shoulders. He hitched his legs up tighter, pressing Oswald impossibly close. He whimpered, hands scrabbling down Oswald's spine for better purchase. His brows knit when Oswald winced at a stab of pain in his leg.

“I would do anything for you, Ed,” Oswald vowed, dizzy with feeling, an echo in lieu of a riddle. “ _Anything_. In bed or out of it.” He stroked Edward's hair back from his damp forehead, hopelessly enamored of the way it curled beneath his touch. “Do you want me to—”

“I want you to shut up,” Edward rasped, punctuating each word with a pointed thrust, “and keep doing this.” He buried his face against Oswald's shoulder, breath increasingly ragged. “I'll let you do anything next time, Oswald, _anything_ ,” he babbled, echoes upon echoes, one hand crabbing back up the length of Oswald's spine to fist in his hair. “Right now, I just want _you_.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” replied Oswald, fiercely, lowering his chin until he could rest his forehead against Edward's swift heartbeat. Heat flared in his belly, unbearably sweet. “Oh, _Ed_ ,” he whispered. He hadn't meant to lose control like this; he'd meant to make sure...

“Oh my,” Edward gasped, voice cracked and shuddering, taut fingers abruptly slack in Oswald's hair. “Oh my, oh— _dear_.” He shook beneath Oswald, his words catching on a fitful sob. It sounded like an admission of fondness as much as ecstatic disbelief, sounded like _adoration_.

Oswald held Edward until they'd both calmed down, pressing kiss after kiss against Edward's chest. Edward rolled away, face half-hidden in the pillow while Oswald got up to find something to clean them with. He didn't protest while Oswald worked, but his eyes remained half-lidded.

Oswald kissed Edward's cheek and got back into bed, finding himself instantly rewarded with an armful of skinny, drowsy warmth.

“You have a press conference first thing in the morning,” Edward mumbled sleepily against Oswald's breastbone, making no move to reach for the alarm clock on the bedside table. Instead, he mouthed absently at Oswald's skin, too exhausted to properly form a kiss.

Oswald nodded, stroking the fine hair at Edward's nape, too elated to care about such a trivial thing. “It's not until nine,” he murmured, feeling his heart clench as Edward burrowed closer. He ran his hand down the curve of Edward's spine, marveling at how diminutive Edward seemed when curled this close. He tucked his chin over the top of Ed's head, tangling their limbs. His right leg, at least, was extended and at ease.

“If there's time,” Edward mumbled, “when we wake up, I mean...” He shivered in Oswald's arms, lips brushing against a nipple. “I'd like that very much. Your mouth on me, I mean.”

“Anywhere you want,” Oswald agreed, tugging the covers snugly about Edward's shoulders. He contemplated the ghosting warmth of Edward's breath across his skin, the way Edward would sound at the first brush of Oswald's tongue against him, how handsome he'd look standing _that_ much closer to Oswald before the cameras. “I love you,” he said, resting his palm between Edward's shoulder blades.

“Oswald,” Edward whispered in a rush, trembling beneath the touch, “this is nothing like...” He took another halting breath, agitated fingers molding along Oswald's hip. “What can be large or small, anywhere in the world—near or far, can stay the same or change over time—is different for everyone, but most of us have at least one?”

“I want you to stay,” Oswald said, eyes shut tight against the disbelieving sting of hope. “Here, with me and my terrible sense of Arkham-themed interior decorating. _Home_.”

“Home,” agreed Edward, as if he might be smiling, thrilled at Oswald's answer. “With _you_. Yes.”


	7. Puzzle Box

"Ed," ventured Oswald's voice, softly, from somewhere beyond the edges of Edward's muddled, bliss-laced perception.

Edward yawned and burrowed further into the crook of Oswald's sweat-and-ambergris scented neck. His stomach felt funny, a sensation comprised more of distress than arousal.

" _Ed_ ," Oswald repeated, lips brushing the top of Edward's head. His hands shifted, splaying across Edward's back, fascinatingly sticky.

Edward was warm. Oswald was warm. _Everything_ was warm. 

" _Hmmm_?" Edward asked, opening his mouth to catch the jut of Oswald's collarbone between his teeth. He bit down lightly and closed his mouth over the patch of skin, swiping it with his tongue. Salt, and then sweet. He sighed.

"Your stomach's growling," Oswald pointed out, at the point of prissy annoyance beneath his obvious contentment. "Now, I know you were being metaphorical before, sex and all that, but are you hungry?"

Edward opened his eyes and tilted his head back just far enough to see Oswald peering at him. _Those pretty eyes_ , he thought, peeling his right hand away from Oswald's hip and bringing it up to rest against Oswald's jaw.

"Hello, handsome," Oswald said, breaking into that gut-punch of a grin that Edward abruptly wanted to kiss right off his face. "There you are. Now, the question is, _do_ you want something to eat?"

"Yes," Edward said, disliking how petulant he sounded to his own perception. But Oswald got that look, the one that suggested Edward was the only thing that had ever mattered or ever _would_ matter, and suddenly that tone of voice was worth filing away for future use.

"I thought you might," Oswald continued, lazily rubbing Edward's back from tailbone to shoulder blades. "As much as I'd love to stay right here and melt you back into a puddle, I think your blood sugar's crashed. You had half a glass of wine on an empty stomach. Not helpful."

"You're not helpful," Edward groused, rolling onto his back. He stretched out beneath Oswald, pulling him into a kiss. Oswald shivered into him, hips flush with Edward's belly. Their contours dovetailed, a two-piece puzzle.

"Listen, I'll cuddle all you want once we've been fed," Oswald mumbled into Edward's mouth, breath hissing on a sharp _ah_ when Edward bit his lower lip. "I'm starving, too. You can't even tell which end of me is up."

"Fuck that," said Edward, squinting happily at Oswald's faint dusting of freckles. "Can too."

Oswald patted Edward's cheek and climbed off him, almost falling in a heap on the floor.

" _Ow_ ," he hissed, using the nightstand for balance. "What did you do to my legs?"

Edward scrambled off the mattress in a hurry, catching Oswald around the waist. "Same thing you did to mine?"

"Very funny," replied Oswald, straightening up with a wince, twisting around in Edward's embrace. "Look at you," he said, plucking affectionately at Edward's messy hair. "All disheveled."

"That's an underappreciated word," Edward said, feeling lightheaded at the intimacy of the gesture. "Are you going to make me get dressed?"

Oswald stepped back just enough to let his eyes sweep down Edward's body.

"I would prefer not to," he admitted, definitely coy, "but I can't guarantee Olga's not still downstairs."

"Pity," Edward said, palming Oswald's backside in order to get a reciprocal point across. "I wanted to see you like this in front of the fire."

Oswald sucked in his breath, eyes disarmingly wide. "Ed, that's _scandalous_ ," he mocked fondly. "Next time. Now, would you be a dear and fetch a couple of my dressing gowns?"

Edward left Oswald propped against the bed and did as he was told. Oswald took both garments, tossing one aside on the mattress while he donned the flashier of the two. Edward's hands got swatted away when he tried to help. Oswald took up the other garment, pushed off from the edge of the bed, and wrapped Edward in it with such fierce tenderness that it left him feeling even more dizzy.

"Oh my," Edward said, swaying into Oswald's waiting arms once the job was done. " _Um_. Dinner."

"I knew you'd catch on," Oswald replied, taking Edward's elbow as if they were off for a stroll in the park. "Let's get that brain of yours back in working order. It wouldn't do to leave you under par for tomorrow."

They made slow progress down the hall, Oswald leaning much harder into Edward than usual. Edward knew he must be in an extraordinary amount of discomfort, what with how they'd lain tangled together for the better part of an hour since they'd finished. Past the entryway, Edward tried swinging Oswald up in his arms, with moderate success. That earned him a peal of Oswald's startled laughter the whole way to the sofa.

"Don't do that again," Oswald huffed as Edward deposited him on the cushions. "Not without your strength up, anyway. You almost fell over."

"I'll go fix us plates," Edward said, bent over him, one hand braced against the same throw pillow against which Oswald had wriggled to recline. "Do you want a little of everything?"

Oswald scrunched up his nose like he was having another of those gleeful moments in which Edward was simply too much for him. "I'll have whatever you're having," he said.

Edward kissed him, drunk on the miraculous knowledge he could do so. "I'll fit as much as I can," he promised. "The good china?"

"Not unless you want to burn the place down," said Oswald. "That gilt will spark in the microwave."

"Oh," replied Edward, blinking at him, realizing his glasses were still in his jacket upstairs. "Yes. Right."

"Now I _know_ your mind's leaked out your ears," Oswald lamented. "Go get your fucking glasses, Ed, and fix us some supper."

 _Note for future reference_ , Edward thought, dashing out of the room and back upstairs. _Endorphins on this scale render you positively stupid_.

He made a detour to the master bathroom once he could see again, fetching Oswald's bottle of pills and a glass of water. These, he left on the coffee table next to Oswald without comment on his way through to the kitchen.

"You are _not_ as subtle as you think you are," Oswald called after him, but the rattle- _pop_ sound of the bottle being opened suggested that he was dosing himself without complaint.

Edward experienced a moment of intense relief as he picked his way through each covered tray and dish in the refrigerator. Oswald had been on the very brink of pain-induced tetchiness, and Edward had, for once, successfully tugged him back from it. Arranging bits of pork and peppers and carrots on each plate, he wondered if Oswald would always prove so endearingly difficult in matters of medication.

Microwaving one after the other, licking grease from his fingertips in vague, yet satisfied distaste, he wondered at what point he'd come to find imagining years at Oswald's side so maddeningly _simple_.

"Gordian Knot," he said to his reflection in the microwave door as the second plate sizzled to completion. "Before now, you've never been happy."

The timer's _ding_ startled him from his thoughts, and his reflection didn't respond.

"Took you long enough," Oswald said as Edward made his way back into the sitting room with one plate balanced precariously on each palm and two forks protruding from his mouth. " _Seriously_?" he demanded, rushing to sit up so that Edward could settle beside him, hurriedly snatching the cutlery from between Edward's teeth. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"I think I'm getting the hang of this," said Edward, hopefully, setting Oswald's plate in his lap. "The heat didn't saturate the entirety of the porcelain," he explained, "so there's no danger it will burn you."

"I can feel that," Oswald deadpanned, skewering a slice of carrot. "Thanks for the advance warning. Getting the hang of what?"

Shoveling some pork into his mouth, Edward considered his response.

"Being half a puzzle," he said, knowing it had already come out wrong.

Oswald paused mid-bite, staring at him in fascination. "Is that so?"

Edward nodded, his mouth still full. "I was bad at being both halves," he explained. "Deplorable."

Frowning, Oswald dispensed with manners and dug into his food just as ravenously. "Is that what you were trying to do?"

"I wasn't...trying, as such," Edward sighed, cutting a chunk of roasted pepper into pleasing red ribbons. "It was just happening. Do you remember the...thing I told you about once, while you were visiting me in Arkham?"

"You told me lots of things while I was visiting you in Arkham," Oswald pointed out. "Some of which concerned me a great deal."

Edward shot him a nervous sidelong glance, using one tine of his fork to arrange the pepper-ribbons in a semblance of the swirls on Oswald's dressing gown. "Did the mirror thing concern you?" he asked reluctantly.

"You hallucinate," Oswald said, gently catching Edward's wrist, coaxing it still. He studied the pepper-pattern in dismay. "I've read that it can come with the territory. You said that the treatments they put you through sometimes made it worse. Has it been...better or worse since you got out?"

"Better, at first," admitted Edward, realizing that his hand in Oswald's was shaking, "and then, for a few days there, worse."

Oswald set down his fork, took Edward's out of his hand, and speared a piece of carrot from Edward's plate. He held it up to Edward's lips, so Edward took it without complaint.

"Very recently?" he asked while Edward chewed, his tone both careful and caring. "Or a few days right after I brought you here?"

"The days between what happened at The Sirens and earlier this evening," Edward replied. "I wasn't seeing things, not exactly, but I..." He thought of Isabella's uncanny resemblance to Kristen and _wondered_. "Was hearing things. In my head, from both the mirror and from..."

Oswald's expression darkened in concern, but it carried no hint of judgment. "If something happened, I really think you should tell me about it," he said, cutting off a piece of pork this time.

Edward took his fork back from Oswald, taking the bite of his own volition. "Her voice," he said. "Tag-teaming my own, and then..." He finished chewing, using his fork to wreck the peppers' simulacrum of the swirls on Edward's chest ( _blood-like, always like blood; no, the bullet that night had been a blank, Oswald was fine_ ). "Earlier, at Jardine's," he gritted out, "there was a woman who looked just like her. She asked me a riddle."

"And you don't know if she was real," Oswald finished for him, sliding an arm around Edward's waist. "Oh, _Ed_. That must have been disorienting."

Edward nodded and, methodically, ate the pepper-shreds one by one. "I _think_ she was real," he said. "I saw the cashier look at her. The resemblance was...unfortunate."

"You said she spoke to you," Oswald prompted. "Did she give you a name?"

"She told me her name was Isabella, and that was after I went and called her Miss Kringle before I could stop myself," Edward muttered, clanging his fork down. "Oswald, this is a problem. _I'm_ the problem."

Oswald took the plates off their laps, one after the other, setting them on the coffee table. He wrapped Edward in his arms, tugging him forward to nestle against his chest.

"You said you were getting the hang of being half a puzzle," he said, running his fingers through the fine hair at Edward's nape. "What do you think that means? It's..." He kissed Edward's forehead, and Edward's self-doubt came undone, _undone_. "It's okay if you don't know."

"It means you're good at being the half I wasn't, the half she wasn't, the half _anyone else ever in my life_ wasn't," Edward gasped, winding his fists in Oswald's dressing gown. "I suck at two-dimensional modeling, but you gave me a puzzle box in three. And I solved it."

"You solved it fast," Oswald reminded him, with fierce pride. "You solved what many have gone _mad_ trying to solve."

"I mean, I'm sure that's just a story the antiques dealer told you to clinch the sale," Edward mumbled into Oswald's chest, relief flooding the entirety of his being, "but I take your point."

"Good," replied Oswald, protective and venomous, "because I'll be _damned_ before I let anyone take you back to Arkham."

"I love you, too," Edward whispered, forcing the words out in a rush.

"Who's the sentimentalist now," Oswald sighed, fervently stroking Edward's shoulder. "Are we done eating?"

Edward nodded, nosing his way inside the patterned brocade, finding the old, smooth bullet-scar at Oswald's shoulder. "I did fine work back then, didn't I," he said, licking it, realizing too late that his tongue was still coated with traces of pepper.

"Ed, _gross_ ," Oswald groaned, tapping him across the back of the head. "But yes. It healed as well as it would have if I'd gone to a proper surgeon."

"I'm improper all right," said Edward, lifting his head to look Oswald in the eye. "You'd be fine if I went down on you right now. Bell peppers are the only members of the genus _Capsicum_ that don't contain capsaicin."

"I don't even care what that means," Oswald said, putting his dressing gown back in prudish order. "Nobody in this house is getting anything _remotely_ resembling a blow job until we've had a full night's rest."

"I think I like it when you talk dirty," admitted Edward, swallowing hard.

Oswald stroked along Edward's lower lip, giving Edward's backside a distracting pinch. "What am I even going to do with you?"

"Everything, I hope," said Edward, catching the tip of Oswald's thumb between his teeth, very much in earnest.


	8. Paper Bird

Oswald was drifting, uneasy in that not-asleep, not-awake space where he tended to assume his alarm was about to go off. He had the vaguest notion that Edward had made sure to set it once they'd come back upstairs from their emotional foray into late-night leftovers.

 _Ed_ , he thought, opening his eyes, aware that he wasn't dreaming the pressure against him.

Edward had both forearms and his chin propped on Oswald's chest, watching Oswald intently.

“Good morning,” he said, squinting, expression comical without his glasses. “Sleep well?”

“Yes,” Oswald told him, brushing Edward's mussed hair back from his forehead. “Did you?”

“My room's drafty sometimes,” Edward admitted, “but you're better than a hot water bottle.”

“Then you'll just have to sleep here from now on,” Oswald said, marveling at how Edward closed his eyes and tilted his head into Oswald's palm as Oswald trailed the touch down his face.

Edward caught Oswald's hand against his cheek, turning to nip at his thumb so fast that Oswald jumped under him, pulse ratcheting up a notch. He kissed the heart of Oswald's palm in apology.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, nuzzling the spot. “It's just that I really want to know what you taste like.”

“You got a decent head-start last night where finding out is concerned,” Oswald replied, breathing shallowly. Edward's belly was pressed right over his groin, so there was no possible way Edward hadn't noticed the state he was in. “And you're forgetting that I promised I'd—”

“Not interested,” Edward said, crawling his way up Oswald's body, settling decisively against him for a lip-bruising kiss. “Not right now, anyway. Change of plans. How about _my_ mouth on _you_?”

Oswald was already breathless and aching, but he didn't want Edward to get overambitious if he was still feeling fragile. It was difficult to tell, in the drowsy golden glow through the curtains, just how much of Edward's bravado was earnest and how much of it obscured the previous evening.

“I'd like that, too,” he said, cupping Edward's face in both hands, feeling the strain in Edward's arms as he held himself up. “But you don't have to beat me to it; this isn't some kind of...”

Edward rubbed against him, just as hard and eager as Oswald. “Contest? Is that what you were about to say?” he asked, planting a messy kiss against Oswald's cheek. “It's not that.”

“Then you had better tell me what it is before I...” Oswald wrapped his arms around Edward's shoulders, breathing shakily against Edward's neck. Experimentally, he bit the soft skin there.

Edward made a wrecked, lovely sound at the back of his throat. “Can I please,” he whispered.

Oswald bit him again, slightly harder this time, awed at the full-body shudder it earned him.

“Since you've asked politely, yes,” he allowed. “Careful with your teeth. I don't know that enjoy the sting as much as you do, although last night you were...gentle enough elsewhere that I....”

“You liked it at your collarbone,” Edward observed, already licking his way down Oswald's neck.

“Maybe my chest, too,” Oswald agreed thinly, closing his eyes and tilting his head back as Edward scooted back to where he'd started, shoving down the covers as he went. “It was... _Ed_...”

“Next time, you can bite me harder,” said Edward, helpfully, licking Oswald's sternum with a satisfied murmur. He mouthed wet kisses between each of Oswald's ribs, causing Oswald to twist and shriek.

“Gah, I'm— _ticklish_ there, would you— _stop_ ,” Oswald begged, laughing breathlessly.

Contritely, Edward nodded, sticking his nose in Oswald's belly button. “Sorry,” he breathed with reverence, letting his lips brush against the tip of Oswald's erection. “ _Mmm_ ,” he said, tonguing it gently.

Oswald opened his eyes painfully wide, shocked at the sensation. He fisted both hands in Edward's hair, easing off as soon as he realized what he'd done. “I didn't mean to pull,” he said, voice strained.

“You can do that,” Edward admitted, between the wet, lazy kisses he was pressing against Oswald's slit. “Just not much harder than you did,” he mumbled, lapping his way down to the base, burying his face between Oswald's legs, breathing against him like before. “You're not circumcised.”

“You are,” Oswald shot back, mindless with the shivers coursing down his spine. “Doesn't matter.”

“This is different,” Edward said, insinuating a hand so that he could tug Oswald's foreskin back a bit further with thumb and forefinger. “Oswald,” he sighed, sucking at the head again, "I like this.”

“The way you're going at it, I _hope_ so,” said Oswald, faintly, grasping fistfuls of Edward's hair.

“I want you to do this to me,” Edward panted, frantic between light kisses and deep-throated dips that left Oswald abruptly speechless. “Wanted to see what would happen if I—did it to you— _first_ —”

“For science?” Oswald suggested, lost in the feel of Edward's hands curled around his shaking thighs.

Edward sucked him ruthlessly now, his fingernails digging into Oswald's skin.

“Curiosity doesn't so much kill the cat as give it an idea of what to expect,” he panted, dotting kisses over Oswald's belly for a breather. “I decided it would be worth being in control of the act before submitting to it.”

“Start again now,” Oswald warned, trembling beneath the attention, “and I'll come in your mouth.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Edward said, blinking up at him, flushing rosy as he parted his lips in readiness. “Please do.”

Oswald hadn't intended to cry out so loudly the lower floor could probably hear, but he hadn't foreseen coming so hard he couldn't get his bearings for the entirety of thirty seconds, either.

Edward choked and spat on the sheets, but it didn't ruin the moment. He sighed and rested his forehead against Oswald's heaving belly, skimming his knuckles worshipfully along Oswald's inner thigh.

“You taste fine,” he concluded, dotting a few more kisses. “I just...don't like the consistency.”

Fingers loose in Edward's unruly hair, Oswald hadn't even yet managed to catch his breath.

“How,” he gasped, finding his voice raw, “can you _possibly_ claim you've never done that?”

Edward shrugged, propping himself up on his elbows between Oswald's thighs. “I have excellent working knowledge of anatomy, so why shouldn't I find the application thereof second nature?”

“I seriously hope that _this_ application had no place at your former job,” Oswald joked weakly.

Edward smacked Oswald's thigh, crawling to settle on top of Oswald again. “Who's being gross now?”

Oswald took Edward's face back in both hands, kissing him languid and open-mouthed, tasting traces of himself on Edward's tongue. Not entirely foreign, not when he'd given in to past curiosity.

“What can I do for you, Ed?” he murmured against Edward's lips. “I'm still happy to suck you off.”

Edward whimpered and squirmed against Oswald, his erection livid between them. Oswald stroked the backs of Edward's thighs until Edward was shaking, palms coming to rest against Edward's lower back.

“You're so sensitive, aren't you,” Oswald murmured, tilting his chin up to nip at Edward's earlobe.

Edward nodded tautly, fingers against Oswald's jaw urging him back for another desperate kiss. “We don't have time for that,” he panted. “We're going to have to forego breakfast as it—”

On instinct, but not without finesse, Oswald shoved his tongue in Edward's mouth and let his fingertips skim lightly down the cleft of Edward's ass. The reaction was heart-stoppingly immediate.

Edward lost his rhythm, burying his face in the pillow alongside Oswald's temple, muffling his shout.

“Given your vast anatomical knowledge,” Oswald whispered in Edward's ear once he'd gone quiet, “ _that's_ something I'd like you to do to _me_.” He repeated the caress for emphasis, enjoying the way it made Edward thrust harder.

Edward shuddered, still riding out the aftershocks. “What, you mean you...want me to try...”

“Your fingers, maybe,” Oswald said, kissing Edward's closed eyelids. “We can work from there.”

“ _You're_ forward,” Edward huffed, endearingly flushed, resting his forehead against Oswald's.

“I've had a lot more time to think about this than I once would have cared to admit,” Oswald said.

“I suppose we've known each other a couple of years when all's said and done,” Edward agreed, finally opening his eyes. They were lust-hazed and lovely, disbelieving in the dust-moted sunshine. "I've thought about it, too, if I'm honest."

“I don't think you realize how beautiful you are,” said Oswald, quietly transfixed. “You look like...”

“No hyperbole,” Edward sighed, running his thumb along Oswald's lower lip, slow and repetitive. “I'm not a work of art or a force of nature or any of those meaningless things. _You're_...”

“You have the most singular aspect I've ever encountered,” Oswald said. “There's no naming it.”

“That...would go a long way to expressing what I find arresting about you, too,” Edward conceded.

“I'm so in love with you I can't _think_ ,” blurted Oswald, in besotted frustration. “What in the world am I supposed to say to those cameras? That I'd rather be in bed with my chief of staff?”

“That's more of a scandal than we can weather this early,” said Edward, half smiling. “I'd advise against it.”

“We'll be late for the press conference if we don't shower,” Oswald sighed with regret. “Help me up?”

Sharing a shower with Edward wasn't the most intelligent decision Oswald had ever made on an already decadently misspent morning, either. They spent more time picking up items knocked off the caddy as a result of maneuvering his ungainly height in the cramped space than anything else.

“ _Ow_ ,” Oswald complained, struck in the shoulder by his heavy bottle of rosemary-mint conditioner as Edward managed to bring it crashing down a third time. “You have basically _zero_ sense of spatial awareness right now, you know that?”

“It’s not my fault there isn’t enough space in here,” Edward pointed out, fetching the bottle, sheepishly putting it back. “Who builds a mansion with tiny bathrooms, anyway? To me, they're inconvenient.”

“That’s a fair point,” Oswald sighed, leaning back into the sudden, expert pressure of Edward’s fingers digging into the knotted muscle of his shoulder. “We’ll have to think about remodeling.”

“I still want my own room,” Edward said tentatively, as if he feared Oswald might deny the request. “For my things, and for when you’re away, or...”

“For when you’re in the proverbial doghouse?” Oswald teased, turning around in Edward’s arms.

Edward gave a swift nod. “We’re bound to have disagreements. Most couples do, don’t they?”

“I hope to have as few with you as possible,” Oswald admitted, chewing his lip. “You have a temper almost as bad as mine. I’m under no illusions.”

“Your bed is more comfortable than mine,” Edward said. “I’ll do my best to stay in it.”

Afterward, he kissed Oswald in front of the steam-frosted mirror, stealing a wary sidelong glance.

Distracting in little more than underwear and a fresh, unbuttoned shirt, Edward helped Oswald dress until every last finishing touch had been put on his ensemble. He saved Oswald's cufflinks for last, positioning them in Oswald's crisply-starched sleeves like the professional he was.

“Go finish getting dressed,” Oswald said, resisting the urge to kiss him again. “I'll wait downstairs.”

While Edward slipped guiltily out of the room, Oswald studied his reflection in the mirror above his dressing table. There was much to be said for the triptych full-length ones, but the oval tableau offered by this one lent some meaning. _A portrait_ , he thought, snatching the origami penguin from where it lay next to his brush, slipping it behind his pocket square. _Something to consider._

He pulled his pistol from the side drawer, making sure it was loaded before he tucked it in his jacket.

“Don't forget your cane!” Edward called from his room at the end of the hall, muffled behind the door.

Oswald snatched it from against the dressing table, for once entirely happy to oblige Edward's fretting.

On reaching the foot of the stairs, he discovered an odd scene. Olga had detained three figures in dark suits, one of whom was Victor Zsasz.

The other two, Oswald recognized as new hires: a young woman who'd made a name for herself gun-running in the Narrows and a middle-aged man built like Butch who'd done time in Blackgate.

“Did I not make it clear that you're _never_ to bother me this early at home?” Oswald asked.

“There was nothing for it, boss,” Zsasz said with that perpetual, manic-eyed smirk, spreading his hands. “The deal at dawn went haywire. Your cargo never made it off the docks, and I lost a reliable mercenary.”

Oswald turned to the young woman for confirmation. “Yeah,” she said tersely. “That's how it went.”

“I have a press conference with Channel Five in approximately seventeen minutes,” said Oswald, shortly. “Exactly what do you expect me to do about this until I'm settled at my desk?”

“You could come with us now and get to city hall quicker,” Zsasz said. “We can do more there.”

“I'm not leaving until Mr. Nygma comes down,” Oswald insisted. “He won't be a few moments.”

“Can't believe this is gonna get held up on account of that slut he keeps around the office,” muttered the new muscle, under his breath, to the impassive young woman. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

Oswald snapped his head up, disbelieving at what he'd just heard. Through the white-hot rage, he kept his composure long enough to say, reaching into his jacket, “In the meantime, let me brief you on—”

Pistol in hand, he cocked and pulled off the shot before Zsasz could even react. The blue-haired young woman looked shaken, but her reaction was limited to unblinking eyes fixed on the man bleeding out on the floor.

“Never,” Oswald said, waving a hand in front of her face until she looked at him, “ _ever_ speak about Ed like that within my earshot _or_ out of it. Word gets back to me much faster than you think. Keep your head down, and do your work. Understand?”

The young woman nodded, her demeanor settling back to cool neutrality. “Yes, boss,” she confirmed.

“Wonderful,” Oswald said, smiling benignly at her before shifting his gaze back to Zsasz. “Get out.”

“We'll wait in your office,” he sighed, spinning on his heel. “Good morning to you, too, Mr. Mayor.”

“Not so fast,” Oswald said, ticking one precise finger at the body on the floor. “Take him with you.”

Oswald waited until Zsasz, his companion, and their dead-weight had cleared out. He shook his head.

Olga strode back in from the sitting room, regarding the sickly red smear with distaste. She went to fetch cleaning supplies.

At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Oswald turned, both hands poised on his cane, until their owner had cleared the landing and come to stand beside him. They both studied the floor with detachment, uncertain if the incident merited any particular reaction.

“Did I miss something?” Edward asked, dapper in green, taking Oswald’s arm. “I heard a shot.” 

“Nothing you haven’t seen a dozen times,” said Oswald, giving him a cheerful kiss. “Let’s go.”


	9. Anything

For Edward to say that his Friday had been trying would have been nothing short of a grievous understatement.

The afterglow of morning lovemaking and an intimate, if clumsy shower had only gotten him so far. The prickle of awareness that something wasn't quite right had begun with a blood-stain on the entryway floor.

Oswald had kissed him and laughed it off. Such a reaction could mean either that it was genuinely nothing, or that there was something Oswald preferred to hide—and Edward wasn't sure which.

Much to Edward's continued irritation, he and Oswald had reached city hall a full ten minutes late for the press conference. It had been no great hardship for Oswald to take the podium directly out of the limousine, waving and grinning his falsely benevolent way up the stairs, but Edward had remained on alert during the entirety of Oswald's camera-flash ridden address.

On scanning the crowd, he'd noticed the presence of Zsasz and the new hit-woman lingering at the back. He remembered scanning her credentials the day she'd been taken on, her name printed as a discreet azure-on-black business card— _V. Aragon_. Everyone just called her Vee.

There'd been another one taken on in the same day, an imposing bruiser predictably named Max. The two were meant to work with Zsasz on increased bodyguard detail post-chaos at The Sirens. The entirety of Zsasz's household could hardly be expected to remain on call, not when they had other contracts to fulfill. Much though Edward was aware that the ability to keep them on retainer would have been advantageous, not even Oswald's budget could have sustained such an extravagance. He'd reviewed the extended family's rates and ruled them out.

In spite of the fact that Edward's scheme to bring down Butch and the Red Hoods had been successful, Oswald wasn’t about to take chances. Media coverage on the night-club incident had yielded mixed results. For some, it had further boosted their confidence in Gotham’s unconventional new mayor; for others, it had served as an uncomfortable reminder of Oswald’s supposedly former connections to the city’s underworld. Isabella’s reaction to Edward’s mayoral connection had been reminder enough that not everyone in Gotham held Oswald in high esteem.

Due to Oswald’s haste, Edward’s screening of these candidates had been perfunctory.

Vee's interview had gone so smoothly as to arouse suspicion, except there were no grounds for it that Edward could uncover. Edward had discovered that there wasn't a gang leader in the Narrows who _didn’t_ swear by her supply channels and marksmanship. Her appearance at Edward's office had been both punctual and professional. She had answered Edward's questions—Oswald's questions, of course, relayed with both precision and additions on Edward's part—with the kind of courteous neutrality Edward had come to prefer in his associates.

In contrast, Max, the former Blackgate inmate, had posed difficulties in Edward's view from the start. He'd arrived ten minutes late with a surly demeanor, and he'd shown blatant disregard for the finer points of several interview questions. He'd made nervous, semi-snide remarks about Edward's office décor, and his gaze on Edward during the entirety of the proceedings had carried an air of untoward appraisal.

Edward had done his time; he'd learned in short order what looks of that sort _meant_. Fortunately, he'd also learned how to evade that brand of attention by retreating further into his perceived eccentricities.

Still, with Butch decisively gone, Oswald had insisted that they needed the muscle.

Edward had found Max's absence from the press conference significant, but he hadn't mentioned it to Oswald on their way inside. Instead, he'd accompanied Oswald to his office, seen to it that Searle brought them both newspapers and breakfast from the coffee shop across the street, and had as leisurely a morning with Oswald across the cramped expanse of Oswald's desk as they could manage. He'd stolen a kiss on the way out, perturbed at the thought his duties would prevent them from crossing paths until evening.

No sooner had he exited Oswald's office than Zsasz and Vee peeled off the wall. They tailed him the whole way back to his office, where they remained outside the door once he shut it in their faces.

Throughout the remainder of the day, each time he had left to oversee a staff meeting or run an errand or make a brief press statement on Oswald's behalf, they'd followed him wordlessly each time. He didn't know whether to chalk this up to Oswald's over-solicitousness now that they were lovers, or whether he ought to connect this particular dot back to the red ones on the entryway floor.

Edward tolerated the tailing with stoicism right up until the moment six o'clock rolled around and they followed him out of city hall and into the back of the limousine that Oswald, who'd departed for the mansion around four to make their initial preparations for the Founders' Dinner, had sent to collect him. He was immensely relieved to spot his favorite driver's silhouette.

“Mr. Zsasz, Ms. Aragon,” he said as they each took a seat on either side of him, the limousine already pulling into traffic. “To what do I owe such... _thorough_ escort detail?”

Zsasz shrugged, chewing a piece of gum with noisy enjoyment. “There was some trouble this morning down at the docks,” he said, shrugging. “It was a done deal that went off the rails. Boss is on-edge. Wanted us to make sure nobody tried to get in the way of his _official_ business through you. The unofficial, well. That's being sorted out.”

“I don't understand,” said Edward, looking to Vee for clarification. “I control both of the mayor's itineraries.”

Vee examined her black-lacquered fingernails, fixing Edward with an unnervingly appraising look.

“Today of all days, he didn't want you stressed out,” she said. “You're higher priority than before.”

Edward glanced down at his hands folded in his lap, nodding in comprehension. They would be hard-pressed to keep the public and the private separate, especially when bodyguards were informed on a need-to-know basis.

He wondered exactly how much detail Oswald had texted them.

“Hey, for what it's worth,” said Zsasz, manic as ever, clapping Edward on the knee, “congratulations!”

“Thanks,” said Edward, unsuccessfully attempting to deflect the contact, “but please don't touch me.”

Vee tilted her head at him, something in her glance suggesting that the human behind the hit-woman was currently the one peering out at him.

“Noted,” she said. “Victor, cut it out. Don't be an ass.”

Zsasz put both hands in the air, offering Edward an expression of wide-eyed apology.

“No hard feelings, huh?” he said. “I'm not taking the piss here or anything, but I have to ask—how is he?”

Edward gave Zsasz a perplexed look, unable to parse the statement even from context. “I'm sorry?”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Vee groaned, covering her eyes. “He means in bed. He's asking how the boss is—”

“Conscientious,” Edward snapped, glaring at Zsasz. “Not that it's really any of your business, is it?”

The three of them sat in stony silence for the remainder of their traffic-delayed ride to the mansion.

On arrival, noticing that Edward had hung back to collect his briefcase, the driver—Caroline, the one who'd gotten him into and out of the wine-shop pickle—drew back the divider and peered at him.

“All right, Mr. Nygma?” she asked, tucking a swath of copper hair up under her cap. “Rough day?”

“I can't even begin to explain,” he sighed, hunched over, heading for the door. “Thank you, though.”

Edward was grateful that Zsasz and Vee didn't follow him beyond the front stoop. He locked the front door behind him, relieved to find that Olga had done her usual bang-up cleaning job on the blood.

“Oswald!” he called, not bothering to remove his shoes and jacket, jogging up the stairs. “I'm home!”

“It's about time!” Oswald shouted through the closed door of his bedroom. “I was afraid you'd never make it in time to change! Come right in and help me, would you? I've got a handful of your things—”

“I'm glad,” Edward admitted, opening the door to Oswald's bedroom, relieved to see several suit options from his own closet laid out on the freshly-made bed. “I don't think I'm in the mood.”

“My poor dearest,” Oswald said, turning from his full-length mirror, dressed except for his tie, jacket, and cufflinks, arms spread wide. “I hope Zsasz and the trainee haven't proved too tiresome.”

“Was it Max?” he asked, folded close in Oswald's arms before he knew it. “The one who was shot?”

“It was necessary, Ed,” Oswald said against Edward's lips. “The man was a liability. Let it go.”

“Of course,” Edward replied, kissing him softly. “I'm concerned, that's all. The business at the docks couldn't have been helpful. Nicky might move in if I don't send him some more...encouragement.”

“We have much bigger fish to fry,” said Oswald, stepping away from him. “I can't decide on a tie.”

“You are going to cut quite the fine figure at the Founders' Dinner tonight,” said Edward, admiring the graceful ease with which Oswald shrugged into his jacket and snapped his cufflinks into place.

“Yes,” Oswald agreed, smiling as Edward stepped closer to him, “So will you. Did you know that this dinner has been thrown annually for over two hundred years? It was started by the first families of Gotham. Only the most powerful citizens are invited,” he explained, letting Edward pick miniscule pieces of lint off his shoulders. “I'm glad you're my plus-one. I'd hardly be able to stand them otherwise.”

Edward nodded, going to fetch the pair of ties Oswald had set out. Blue and magenta floral, a startling departure; swirled purple brocade, the one he'd been wearing the day he collected Edward from Arkham.

“I'm partial to the purple,” he told Oswald, holding it up before Oswald's reflection in the mirrors.

“The brocade brings out my eyes,” Oswald agreed, studying his appearance as Edward looped it around his neck and got down to the precise business of knotting it. “I know you noticed.”

“How could I not,” Edward murmured, efficiently tucking the tie into Oswald's violet silk waistcoat.

Oswald tilted Edward's chin up with two fingers, using them to brush along his jaw. “It's your turn.”

Being stripped down to almost nothing by Oswald, without sexual intent, and re-dressed from the ground up was something of a novel experience.

The fine, pinstripe-weave white shirt into which he buttoned Edward was so new it still smelled of the tailor's premises. Edward chose his favorite emerald-inlaid cufflinks from the bed, making short work of them while Oswald puzzled over his suits.

“Are those the platinum ones with the thing that looks like a question-mark?” Oswald asked, lingering over the less-muted of the two forest green ensembles. “We'd better go bright or stay home.”

Edward nodded, accepting the trousers from Oswald. “I haven't worn this since the victory parade.”

“A new shirt covers a multitude of sins,” said Oswald, delighted, holding up a tie Edward didn't recognize. “As will this. I couldn't resist getting you something with a little more _snap_.”

Edward examined the tie before indicating that Oswald should put it on him, eyebrows raised. Somewhere between lavender and rose, it had intricate, abstract vine-work picked out in silver and emerald over its entirety. Edward never would have selected it for himself, but one glimpse in the mirror over Oswald's shoulder told him that it would play superbly off the cufflinks.

“You got me these the day before you took office,” said Edward, indicating his cuffs. “An extravagant welcome-to-the-campaign-team gift if I ever saw one. The certificate-framing would've sufficed.”

“Nonsense,” Oswald replied, helping Edward shrug into his jacket, tugging it into place by the lapels.

“Platinum and emeralds don't come cheap,” Edward continued. “You must've spent several thousand.”

Oswald sighed happily, running his fingers across Edward's chest. “ _Anything_ for you, gorgeous.”

Cheeks hot, Edward licked his thumb, removing an eyeliner smudge at the corner of Oswald's left eye.

“I don't understand how you do it with as few mistakes as that,” he marveled. “And so quickly, too.”

Scratching his chin, Oswald stepped back and regarded Edward from head to toe while Edward put his shoes back on. He nodded decisively, as if whatever thought had been eluding him had finally landed.

“Do you trust me, Ed?” he asked, removing Edward's glasses the moment Edward had managed to stand back up from tying his shoes. “Come over here,” he said, clearly holding the glasses hostage.

“I can't see a thing, so it doesn't matter whether I trust you or not,” Edward said. “I'm at your mercy.” He trailed after Oswald's form, which led him roughly in the direction of the dressing table. “What?”

“I'm going to try something,” said Oswald, smearing his right index finger through something concealed in his left palm, “and if you don't like it, it's easy to undo. Close your eyes.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Edward said, doing as he was told. Oswald's gritty fingertips dusted their artful way across his eyelids, doing an unusually thorough job of blending at the corners. “I'm not sure...”

“This is the palest shade in your preferred range that I've got,” Oswald said. “Just a slight shimmer. You can open your eyes now,” he said, moving back to the dressing table just as Edward did. “One more thing,” he said, returning with something that looked suspiciously like mascara. “One pass, hardly a trace, I _promise_ ,” he soothed, one hand firm at Edward's shoulder as he skimmed the brush vertically across one set of Edward's lashes, and then the other, in about three seconds flat.

“Are you trying to tell me I can't wear my glasses?” Edward asked, frowning. “This won't end well.”

“No, the point is absolutely that you _can_ ,” said Oswald, handing them back to him before grabbing a handkerchief from the dressing table and cleaning his fingers off. “It's nothing extreme.”

Edward shoved his glasses back into place, turning to stare at the full-length mirrors. He blinked.

“Look at those pretty eyes,” said Oswald, the uncanny echo sending a shiver down Edward's spine.

“If you think it's becoming, then I'll try it,” Edward said, cracking a nervous smile. “Should we go?”

“There's time for a drink if you'd like,” said Oswald, wrapping his arms around Edward from behind.

“No,” Edward said, covering the backs of Oswald's hands, enjoying the rasp as their sleeves came in contact. “Zsasz and Vee are waiting outside. So is Caroline. I told her we wouldn't be long.”

If not for the seat opposite the front-facing one, which Edward and Oswald occupied, the limousine ride to the dinner's venue—each year, one of the illustrious families took its turn to host—would have proved cramped indeed. While Vee leaned hard against the door, half her face hidden in her hand out of contact embarrassment, Zsasz stared at them nearly the whole time, wearing an inscrutable smile.

Edward was relieved to leave them in the stately residence's foyer with their host's disdainful butler.

A member of rented wait-staff, differentiated from the butler by her all-black garb, showed them to the second-floor dining room. Edward followed close at Oswald's elbow, hyper-aware of how much more intimate their surroundings were than he'd been expecting. The room was mahogany-paneled, nowhere near as vast as he'd predicted; the walls were hung with coat-of-arms tapestries and austere turn-of-the-century Scandinavian paintings. He could've sworn he'd spotted a Wyeth in the mix for variety. 

Another member of the extra wait-staff offered them champagne flutes as they passed. Oswald handed one to Edward and then accepted one for himself, thanking the young man with subdued charm.

Edward was startled to realize he already found it difficult not to offer Oswald his arm at every turn.

As they approached the long dining table, set to perfection, Oswald seemed to sense Edward's discomfort. He sipped his champagne, about to offer Edward his arm as someone clipped his elbow.

The resulting champagne-splash not only hit Oswald's pristine cuff, but also the toe of Edward's shoe.

“Watch where you're going,” scolded Edward, reflexively, knowing that Oswald might fly off the handle at the stranger within seconds if the damages to his wardrobe were severe enough.

“Of course, Mr. Mayor,” said the young man with long hair, a mustache, and goatee, something in his tone as unctuous and grating as his plaid jacket and bow-tie. “So sorry.”

“Cretin,” Oswald muttered under his breath, setting his near-empty champagne glass on the edge of the table, taking Edward's hand and bringing briefly, decorously to his lips. “Thank you,” he said.

Edward couldn't help but thrill to the fact that literally _none_ of the other guests were paying them the slightest bit of attention. They were all too wrapped up in their fur stoles and dull conversations, circulating as they examined the thoroughly ill-curated scenery.

“Imagine,” he said, brushing an errant droplet of champagne off Oswald's chin before picking up Oswald's glass along with his own. “The archbishop, the comptroller, and the mayor—all in the same place.”

“Sounds like the set-up to a joke,” Oswald admitted, strolling beside him. “Or one of your riddles.”

Edward chuckled, realizing that, here, he was anything _but_ Oswald's chief of staff. One glance around the room told him that nearly every plus-one present was either a spouse, partner, or lover.

“I like this,” he said, directing them off to one side, turning to face Oswald. “I could get used to—”

“My,” said a voice to Edward's left. “Don't the two of _you_ make a striking _tête-à-tête_.”

“I'm sorry,” said Oswald, distinctly annoyed, turning to face the stately older woman. “Who are you?”

“Kathryn,” said the interloper, catching Edward's eye as he studied her upswept curls, smart grey suit, and blocky Art Deco brooch. “What a handsome fellow,” she said, offering her hand.

Edward just stared at her, not inclined to take it. He didn't like her perfume ( _agarwood, myrrh_ ).

“Just Kathryn,” said Oswald, side-eyeing her in mild disbelief as he took another sip of champagne.

“Mmm- _hmmm_ ,” Kathryn said. Her haughty self-importance rubbed Edward the wrong way.

Edward stepped closer to Oswald's side, wrapping his hand possessively around Oswald's forearm.

“How did you end up at the Founders' Dinner?” Oswald inquired. “If it's not rude of me to ask.”

“Not at all,” said Kathryn, eyeing Edward with a teasing flash of mischief. “I'm from one of Gotham's oldest families. And I'm part of a group, which...oversees things.”

“What sort of things?” Oswald asked, too mesmerized by Kathryn's air of mystery for his own good.

Edward let his pinkie press warningly beneath the underside of Oswald's arm, hoping the signal would prove sufficient. _She's stringing you along in hopes she'll get information_ , he thought.

“Everything that matters in Gotham,” Kathryn replied, turning on the same false flattery that Edward had used on Butch the week before. “We've had our eye on you for some time, Mr. Cobblepot.” 

“Who exactly are you?” Oswald asked, an edge of hard suspicion finally creeping into his voice.

The dinner bell sounded, startling all three of them. Edward clung insistently to Oswald's arm, pretending all the harder beneath this dangerous creature's scrutiny that he was little more than a pretty face.

“We'll contact you when the time is right,” Kathryn told Oswald smugly, and then turned her gaze back on Edward to regard him with dismissive amusement. “Enjoy your evening,” she said.

“What a severe-looking woman,” said Oswald, meeting Edward's eyes. “What did you notice?”

“Let's discuss it later,” Edward cautioned, leading Edward back toward the table. “We should sit.”

They had no sooner gotten situated at the end next to the archbishop than the man in the ill-fitting plaid jacket, flanked by two unfortunate-looking flunkies, strode in and fired two shots at the ceiling.

Edward's hand flew to Oswald's wrist against the table, ready to yank him underneath it for cover.

“What _is_ this?” Oswald demanded, defiant before the intruder. “ _What_ is going on?”

“I'm afraid your evening has been hijacked, Mr. Mayor,” said the man, whose top hat had to be the worst thrift-shop find that Edward had ever seen. “I see the champagne didn't leave a mark,” he added, sticking his firearm right against Oswald's chest before using it to roughly stroke Oswald's cheek. “I'm so glad. For those of you who don't know me, my name is Jervis Tetch. I promise not to take up too much of your time. But the fact is, you are the heads of Gotham. And tonight? The heads of Gotham will roll. But first, a toast,” he continued, and the wait-staff set a glass of blood-red claret before each guest as if on some silent, choreographed cue. “A drink to your health.”

Too terrified to move, Edward kept his hand where it was over Oswald's and leaned forward too slightly for Tetch to notice. The wine had an acrid note to it, something that didn't belong.

 _Blood_ , he thought, his mind racing. _Actual blood with decomposition in evidence._

“And if we _don't_?” Oswald hissed, hand twisting, grasping Edward's hand so tightly it hurt.

“Change, my friends, is nigh,” said Tetch, staring down Oswald with cold fury. “Drink the wine,” cocking his gun and pointing the barrel straight at Oswald's forehead, “or else? You die.”

Before Edward could make a reckless stab at distracting Tetch with the first riddle that popped into his mind—Tetch's penchant for stilted rhyming spoke to some common ground—Harvey Bullock and a number of GCPD's blundering excuses for Special Ops burst into the room.

“Glasses down! _Now_!” Harvey shouted as the room erupted into screams. “Glasses down!” he repeated, steps around the table faltering as his team got to work securing the server-accomplices. He'd set eyes on Edward and Oswald, hand in hand, and couldn't seem to tear them away.

“Good evening, Detective,” Oswald offered, gathering his composure as he got to his feet, turning to draw Edward up after him. “Now that you've got this unfortunate situation in hand, we'll be going.”

Harvey rolled his eyes, settling on Edward as his target. “You sure do get around, huh, Ed?”

“I work at city hall now,” said Edward, calmly, snatching Oswald's cane from where he'd propped it as Oswald dragged him toward the stairs. “You shouldn't be surprised to see me in the _least_.”

“You can bet if there's anything here that reeks,” Harvey called after them, “I'm hauling you in!”

“Something reeked all right,” said Edward, breathlessly, as they all but stumbled off the landing and into the chaotic foyer. “There was blood in the wine. Not fresh blood, either.”

“There's been talk about a virus,” Oswald muttered, accepting his cane as Edward held the heavy front door open for him. “Something with links back to a madman. I'm going to guess that was him.”

“It's Arkham for that one,” said Edward, holding the door for a few more fleeing elites before following Oswald to where he'd intercepted Zsasz and Vee. “I doubt he'll get a certificate as easily as we did.”


	10. Everything

Oswald was in too short a temper to immediately debrief Zsasz and Vee. He was perfectly content to accept Edward’s help on getting into the limousine, pointedly ignoring the hit-persons behind him.

“Rough night, Mr. N?” said Caroline, from where she leaned against the open driver’s side door. She pitched her cigarette and pulled the back door wider as Edward hustled Oswald inside. “You just can’t catch a break,” she added sympathetically, shaking her head.

“You have no idea,” Edward told her wearily. He seemed irritated to have Zsasz anywhere _near_ them, although his glances in Vee’s direction were palpably more forgiving. “Take us home,” he told Caroline through the open divider once she’d resumed the wheel.

“Anything you say,” Caroline replied, revving the engine, the scent of another Pall Mall drifting back. Oswald had tried smoking while still in Fish’s employ and could never decide whether he enjoyed the nicotine high or detested the jittery aftermath. “You doin’ okay, too, boss?”

“Yes, Ms. Fowler,” Oswald said, uncertain of the last time he had even addressed her. “Do as Ed says.”

“Righty-o, back to the old homestead,” Caroline agreed, closing the divider in another puff of smoke.

“You’ve made an impression on the staff, I see,” Oswald told Edward admiringly, settling close to him.

“Caroline drives me almost everywhere when my duties take me away from you,” Edward explained, keeping one calculating eye on Zsasz. “It behooves me to be on friendly terms with her. She’s kind.”

Oswald nodded at his soundness of logic, at least satisfied that his charismatic, recently-promoted-to-primary driver hadn’t made any untoward moves on Edward. “I’ll see to it she’s assigned to you personally,” he said.

“I would appreciate you making it official,” Edward agreed, expression shifting as his eyes fell on Oswald’s faintly-marked sleeve. The champagne had left a yellowish trace. “Tetch didn’t look closely enough,” he said. “There’s a slight stain.”

“It’s too dry for your salt trick,” Oswald said, overwhelmed with affection toward Edward’s brave actions throughout the evening. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing the dry cleaner can’t take care of.”

Edward glanced at Zsasz again, lingering this time as Oswald set a possessive hand on Edward’s knee.

“Are you all right?” he asked, turning back to Oswald, looking him earnestly in the eyes. “Tetch—”

“Didn’t hurt me at all,” Oswald reassured Edward hastily, fixing Edward’s bunched tie. “Are you?”

Edward nodded, catching Oswald’s hands against his chest. It was a startlingly bold action on his part.

“I’ll text Olga,” he said, releasing Oswald just as quickly, pulling out his phone. “Have…tea…waiting.”

Zsasz made a sound under his breath that sounded an awful lot like _huh_ ; Vee elbowed him.

“I expect the two of you to remain on duty until the morning shift arrives,” Oswald told them tartly.

Edward took the lead as soon as they set foot inside the house. He propped Oswald’s cane at the foot of the stairs, shuffled their discarded shoes to one side, and asked Olga if the tea was ready.

“ _Da_ ,” she said, reaching for her possessions where they hung on the wall. “Is at the coffee table.”

“Thank you, Olga,” Oswald said as she donned her coat. “Are you off to have some fun this evening?”

“Edward tell me you say have the night off,” replied Olga, shrugging, hand already on the doorknob.

Oswald watched her breeze out, attempting to overhear whatever Zsasz said to her as she departed.

Edward stood waiting patiently, hands clasped in front of him. “I thought we might need privacy.”

Oswald locked the door and whirled around, catching Edward by the shoulders. “You _scamp_.”

“Come on,” Edward said, taking hold of Oswald’s hands, walking backward in order to lead him.

The tea was black with bergamot-bite. Nonspecific, but reassuring enough to be any of the several subtle Earl Grey blends that Oswald had inherited from his father and step-family. Oswald declined sugar as Edward prepared him a cup; Edward didn’t touch it, either.

“The marks have faded,” Oswald said, reaching to brush his fingertips against Edward’s neck while he cradled his teacup one-handed. “I’m so relieved. Soft-tissue damage is no laughing matter.”

“Agreed,” Edward mumbled into his teacup, lowering it to make room for Oswald’s hand as it trailed up to cup his jaw. “I could tell you some horror stories…” He cleared his throat. “From GCPD.”

“I don’t want you to think about anything like that,” said Oswald, fiercely. “Not after tonight.” He took several more swallows of his tea, setting the cup aside, free hand still stroking Edward’s face.

Edward almost choked in an attempt to finish what was left of his own just as quickly. He fumbled his teacup onto the table alongside Oswald’s, instantly pulling Oswald forward into his arms.

“Thank you for taking me tonight,” he said, muffled in Oswald’s hair. “It was...fun and informative.”

The significance of this tableau, which Edward had taken such care to orchestrate, was _not_ lost on Oswald. He pulled back enough in Edward’s embrace to fit their mouths together, easy as breathing.

“I knew you wanted a do-over,” he murmured between fervently comforting kisses. “I’m just sorry it included more incidental violence.”

“You said you—” Edward paused, pressing his lips eagerly against Oswald's “—would've made love to me right here in front of the fire. Show me.”

Oswald kissed him, overcome with wishing he'd read Edward's declaration that evening as intent. He wanted to give Edward _everything_.

“Sit back,” Oswald said, mesmerized by the reflection of flames in Edward's lenses as he braced his palms on Edward's thighs in order to get down on his knees. With any luck, the painkillers he'd taken before dinner would last a few more hours. He desperately wanted to do this act justice, both in the sense that he'd let his first chance pass _and_ in light of Edward's generosity that morning. “Get comfortable.”

“I'm already comfortable,” said Edward, but his breath hitched as Oswald ran his palms up and down Edward's thighs, spreading them with gentle insistence. “You're touching me.”

“Then I—” Oswald swallowed, mouth going dry at the easy, unconscious eroticism of Edward's words. “Good,” he told Edward, wasting no time in unbuttoning Edward's waistcoat and untucking his shirt. “I want you to enjoy this as much as I enjoyed you doing it to me.” He released Edward's shirt just long enough to stroke Edward's cheek, running his thumb along Edward's lower lip. “May I?”

Palms pressing urgently into Oswald's shoulder blades, Edward all but crushed Oswald in his embrace. His tongue was graceless as he pushed it past Oswald's lips, his haste perhaps indicative of apprehension. “Leave my clothes on,” he panted against Oswald's mouth, frantic as Oswald clumsily unfastened his trousers and slipped a hand inside. “Yours, too. For now.”

“Okay, but I'm going to need to, _um_ —” Oswald coaxed Edward's erection free of his underthings, stroking as he drew it out through Edward's fly “—in order for this to work. Unless you wanted me to suck you through your—”

“No, on my skin,” Edward panted. “Your hand takes my breath away, so I can’t…imagine what your mouth…”

“Well, you won’t have to,” Oswald said reassuringly, feeling the tightness in his chest dissipate at the realization that Edward was every bit as nervous as he was. “Ed, tell me what you want.”

“Kiss me,” Edward whispered against Oswald’s forehead, eyes screwed shut, nuzzling into Oswald’s product-stiff hair. “Like I kissed you this morning.” He wrapped a hand around Oswald’s on himself, guiding it down to the base, hissing at the welcome pressure. “ _There_.”

Oswald brushed a kiss against Edward’s jaw before bending low, his free hand splayed on Edward’s right thigh for balance as much as to reassure Edward. “There is nothing I’d more gladly do.”

Edward tasted like the scent of him—sweet, and then salt—only stronger, skin delicate in its give against Oswald’s tongue and teeth. Oswald closed his lips around the head, dipping his tongue immediately into Edward’s slit. _Kiss me_ , he’d said, and Oswald intended to oblige.

“Oh,” Edward moaned, hips jerking as Oswald shifted his grip to hold him steady, “oh, _fuck_.”

Feeling ambitious, Oswald sucked half of Edward’s length into his mouth. Neither one of them was so large as to give the other difficulty, not insofar as Oswald could tell. He was already convinced that he _might_ be able to manage more if he breathed through his nose. He pushed his tongue down the underside, working his jaw to lend the slightest scrape of teeth.

As with any other stimulus introduced without warning, Edward’s reaction was _instantaneous_.

“Please,” he begged, hands flying from Oswald’s shoulder blades to the back of his head, his frenzied attempt to push forward causing Oswald to gag in surprise. “No, _oh_ ,” he gasped tautly, stroking the back of Oswald’s neck when he felt Oswald ease off, “no, I didn’t mean to, I _didn’t_ —”

“Ed, _relax_ ,” Oswald panted, catching hold of Edward’s hands as they flew to his cheeks in alarm. After what had happened with Kristen, Oswald supposed he didn't blame him. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m breathing. Just give me a second, okay?”

Edward nodded tersely, his face even redder by firelight than it would have been in the low light of Oswald’s room. “You don’t just take my breath away,” he said. “You drive me _wild_.”

“You like that word, don’t you,” said Oswald, smiling, running thoughtful fingertips up and down Edward’s length. “And _disheveled_ ,” he added, kissing the tip. “You very much look the part.”

“The faster you work, the longer till you're done,” replied Edward, shakily, both hands sliding back into Oswald’s hair with the ease of routine. “The slower you work, the sooner you're finished.”

“I sincerely hope that’s not _actually_ a riddle about blowing someone,” Oswald murmured, finally taking Edward back in his mouth, sucking at a leisurely pace. He was getting used to it.

“No, but it’s…” Edward bit his lip, eyes sliding shut again. “It’s the closest I could come up with. It’s more to say…” He groaned, rubbing the back of Oswald’s neck in agitation. “ _Oswald_ , I’m…”

Oswald pulled off against his better judgment, using his hand to maintain a steady rhythm. “Do you want to come in my mouth,” he asked, amazed that the words didn’t stick in his throat, because he must have been blushing even more fiercely than Edward, “or on my face?”

Too late, given that the mere articulation of such a choice sent Edward gasping into the latter by default, which Oswald filed away as a point of pride. He shook beneath Oswald’s steady hands—one at his hip, one still on his cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Edward moaned, trying to angle himself away, but Oswald held him firmly in place.

“Is that the answer?” asked Oswald, smugly, releasing Edward’s hip so that he could brush curiously at the wetness streaking his cheek, his chin, and his neck. He touched his fingertips to his tongue, watching Edward’s already wide eyes go round before surrendering in a disoriented flutter.

“Take off my glasses,” Edward sighed, slumping against the back of the sofa. “And no, I’m afraid it’s not.” He rifled aimlessly through Oswald’s jacket pockets, inside and out, until he came up with one of Oswald’s handkerchiefs, and then pulled the one he’d stolen from Oswald a week ago from his own pocket. “I adapted it from a riddle that’s actually about cooking. It felt…apt.”

Giddy, Oswald removed Edward’s glasses and tucked them into his jacket behind his pocket square.

“You taste fine, too, for the record,” he told Edward, leaning up to kiss Edward’s forehead while Edward cleaned him off with the handkerchiefs. “I don’t even think I mind the texture.”

“Then I’ll be sure to choose the first option next time, provided you give me sufficient warning,” deadpanned Edward, reaching around Oswald to toss the handkerchiefs on the coffee table.

Oswald kissed him filthy and deep, thrilled, leaning in hard between Edward’s still-spread thighs.

“I know you’re dopey as they come right now,” he said, pun intended, “but how do you want me?”

“Stand up,” ordered Edward, sounding nowhere near as impressive as he would have on a clear head.

Finding that a reasonable, if curious request, Oswald got up. He shifted from one foot to the other, aggravated that his leg was inclined to protest given how long he’d been kneeling. Nevertheless, he’d bear it.

“Take off your clothes,” Edward continued, leaning forward, the better to both see Oswald and awkwardly unbutton his waistcoat while Oswald shed his jacket. “I wanted to see you by…”

“I know,” said Oswald, fondly, disengaging Edward’s trembling fingers. “I remember. Let me.”

Edward nodded. He leaned even farther forward, elbows propped precariously on his knees, eyes expectant. For all that he still seemed hazy and wrecked, his attention was _rapt_ , and Oswald found the look impossibly charming on him.

Shedding his shirt and waistcoat across the coffee table, Oswald blushed to the roots of his hair. The task shouldn’t have been daunting, not when they’d spent so much of the past twenty-four hours in an intimate setting, but there was something about Edward’s hyperfocus that made Oswald feel like a specimen laid out for dissection. Naked from the waist up, he unfastened his trousers next.

“Isn’t having your glasses off counterproductive?” he asked, distracting himself as he stepped out of his bottom layers all in one fell swoop. “I’m going to have to get closer just to make sure you can—”

“That’s the idea,” Edward said, tugging Oswald forward by his hips. “And I want you to see my eyes.”

“Ed,” Oswald sighed, bringing his palms to rest against Edward’s cheeks. “I can. I see _you_.”

Edward smiled serenely at him, so close his tipped-up chin rested right against Oswald’s breastbone.

“I find you aesthetically pleasing,” he murmured, hungrily kissing Oswald’s neck. “Beautiful, even.”

Oswald closed his eyes as he felt the strain in his leg give, but it didn’t matter. Edward was holding him up with one arm around Oswald’s waist, his other hand busy between Oswald’s legs as he continued to nip at Oswald’s throat and collarbone. It was almost too much.

“I should've propositioned you when we first met,” he gasped, clinging to Edward’s shoulders. "The woods, I mean. Not the station."

“That would’ve been difficult,” Edward mumbled, worrying tentatively at Oswald’s right nipple with his teeth, pinning Oswald’s erection up against his belly with another lavish caress. “You were unconscious.”

“I recovered quickly enough,” said Oswald, half delirious, shivering as Edward’s lips found his bullet-scar and laved over it repeatedly. “We could have shared the bed. I wouldn’t have minded. You hardly fit on your own battered sofa. In the very _least_ I would have kept you warm.”

“You keep me warm,” Edward insisted, manhandling Oswald until his back was to him, “whether we’re touching or not.” He sat back, spreading his legs wider, tugging Oswald down to sit between them.

“Is this one of the items on your bucket list?” Oswald asked, settling back against Edward’s shirt-covered chest with a sigh. “Ordering me around until I burst out of sheer frustration?”

“The man you killed this morning,” Edward ventured, tugging at Oswald's earlobe with his teeth. “What did he do?”

As desperately aroused as Oswald was by the ministrations of _both_ Edward's hands, fury still flared in him.

“He insinuated that you are of little more use to me than a whore,” he spat. “It _could not_ go unpunished.”

Edward's breath against Oswald's earlobe quickened, the twist of his clever fingers at the sensitive, deftly-exposed head of Oswald's erection more insistent. “You killed for me,” he said, quietly pleased, his tone turning Oswald's coherency to dust. “I made you late for an important press conference less than a week into my tenure as your chief of staff, and you _killed_ for me.”

“Correction,” Oswald gasped, head falling back against Edward's shoulder, mindlessly close to losing all semblance of control. “Less than twenty-four hours into your tenure as my _partner_ , I killed for you.”

Edward bit enthusiastically at Oswald's earlobe, soothing away the sting with a swipe of his tongue. The rules they'd set down were holding.

“Oswald, you're _mine_ ,” he whispered fiercely. “And now everyone knows it.”

“ _Ed_!” Oswald shouted, hips bucking off the sofa as he came. His grasp on Edward's thighs must have been excruciating. “ _Fuck_. I swear you're...”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Edward murmured, all warm breath against Oswald's neck. “Hold that thought,” he soothed, trailing his fingers through the mess on Oswald's belly, seemingly fascinated by the way it felt. “It's all right.”

Entirely drained, Oswald sagged in Edward's embrace, unsuccessfully trying to catch his breath.

“I'd use a riddle if I knew one, _but_ ,” he panted. “I'm useless at those.”

“As you're so often encouraging me to do,” Edward suggested, easing Oswald's grip on his thighs, arranging Oswald's hands so that they rested limply in the same spots they'd been digging into, “just tell me what you want to tell me. I'd very much like to hear it.”

“I was going to say that you're perfect,” Oswald sighed, tilting his chin up, rubbing his forehead against Edward's jaw. “You're everything I could possibly...” He envisioned the portrait he'd been imagining all day; in it, Edward stood beside him. “I'm going to have somebody paint us.”

Edward paused in the endeavor of kissing Oswald's forehead, frowning. “Paint a...picture?” he echoed, perplexed. “For what purpose?”

“My own viewing pleasure?” Oswald retorted, patting Edward's thigh. “Posterity? Look, Ed, this is some commitment-level stuff here.”

"How long would I have to stand still?" Edward ventured. "I'm not always amenable to that."

“We'd get breaks,” Oswald replied, rubbing Edward's forearms in reassurance. “We could even do a sitting pose if you wanted. Like royalty.”

“Pursue me forthright, and I will elude you,” said Edward, nuzzling Oswald's damp temple. “Stalk me covertly, and I will ensnare you. What am I?”

“I don't even know where to begin,” Oswald admitted, savoring the contact. He slid his hands from Edward's wrists to the backs of his hands, entwining their fingers. “If it's—too much, too soon, then I—”

“Checkmate,” said Edward, beside himself with devious satisfaction. “A queen.”

“You mean like...in chess?” Oswald asked, bewildered. “Ed, what does chess have to do with commissioning a portrait?”

“They see me as your consort, Oswald. Even your whore,” Edward replied, bringing Oswald's left hand up to his lips, kissing his ring finger. “What they _don't_ see is that I'm the power behind your throne.”

Oswald felt the beginnings of a smile burn upon his lips, the brush of Edward's mouth causing his skin to flush with elation. He needed look no further for continued proof of Edward’s brilliance.

“If you're my queen,” he said, giving Edward's other hand a squeeze, drawing it to his lips in kind, “then I'm going to make damn sure we dress you like one. Your wardrobe needs more flash, some brighter color—you said so yourself. Those greens of yours are too dark. What do you think?"

“I think I’d like that,” Edward replied, sighing in contentment. “I’d like that _very_ much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For curious and interested parties, there's a bonus ficlet from Barbara Kean's perspective, [**_Scandal_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10918659), that's set in the early hours of morning at The Sirens between this installment and the next (it includes Victor and Tabitha).


	11. Chessboard

Edward woke to the sound of Oswald's muffled snoring and the sound of rain against the antique windows' paneled glass. He turned his head against the pillow, squinting at Oswald's half-hidden features in the grey, fragile light of winter dawn.

Oswald's arm, thrown across Edward's chest, was a warm, reassuring weight against the room's slight chill.

“Your hair's a mess,” Edward whispered, scarcely more than mouthing the words. “I adore you.”

Oswald scrunched up his nose, but he didn't wake. His fingers twitched against Edward's side.

Before Edward could lean in to kiss his forehead or do anything else that would hopefully result in an armful of grumpy, yet amorous Oswald, he heard the front door open downstairs. For all of three seconds, his heart rate rose in alarm until he remembered that it was Saturday morning and Olga was due for the start of her shift. That meant it was just before seven thirty.

Edward considered the unpredictability of what they might expect for breakfast under these circumstances beyond a few constants ( _tea, orange juice, hard-boiled eggs_ ). He studied Oswald's travesty-struck hair for a few more seconds, resisting the urge to stick his nose in it and breathe deeply, an idea forming. They'd have an entire day to themselves if...

“Sorry sorry _sorry_ ,” Edward mouthed, shifting Oswald's arm off his chest as he got up.

Finding his pajamas and dressing gown scattered across the floor—they hadn't stopped at making love in front of the fire the night before, far from it—caused Ed to blush to the roots of his hair even though nobody else was watching. It took him a while after dressing to locate his glasses.

By the time he made it to the kitchen, dressing gown hastily belted and slippers almost flopping off his feet with each step, Olga was busy washing the tea service they'd left on the coffee table. Edward couldn't help but notice that the ill-used handkerchiefs were balled up on the counter.

Not turning from the sink, Olga cast him a critical glance over her shoulder. “ _Dobroye utro_.”

“Good morning,” Edward replied, nervously brushing back his hair. “Did you have a nice night?”

“I listen to book on the iPod and go to sleep,” Olga told him, rinsing off her hands. “Did _you_?”

“Oh,” Edward said, swallowing, averting his gaze. “Yes. I did. Very much so. Extremely relaxing.”

“Breakfast not for few hours,” said Olga, curtly. “ _Ukhodi_. Back to bed with lazy boyfriend.”

“Actually, I wanted to let him sleep undisturbed,” Edward replied, talking through the fierce burning in his cheeks, hoping she wouldn't notice the shade he'd gone. “You can have today off, too.”

Olga turned, towel in hand. “Who feed you if I don't? Bald man and girl with blue hair outside?”

“I, actually, I,” Edward stammered, “can cook. Quite well, even. I want to use the kitchen today.”

“ _Khorosho_ , then I go home,” said Olga, removing her apron, “and listen to more books.”

“Yes, good,” Edward agreed, finding himself alone with the dripping tap and the filthy handkerchiefs.

He filled one side of the sink with hot water and plunged them into it, picking and scratching at the submerged fabric until he'd undone the worst of the damage. Lovemaking was messy business without the usual, _advisable_ trappings; he wondered if he ought to have brought condoms home with the wine. While they hadn't engaged in any form of penetration, he probably should have asked.

Guiltily, he hung the handkerchiefs with determination and got to work.

Timing the readiness of everything that he wanted to serve for approximately nine o'clock was mildly tricky, especially given the careful free-hand cutting required to shape the finished main course. He would have favored cheddar for the sake of both consistency and flavor, but he'd only been able to find feta in the refrigerator. At least the fruit he wanted was amply in evidence, as was Oswald's favorite juice.

French-press coffee was a weekend treat, and Edward had a knack for it.

Once he'd set their usual seats at the table, he made his way back upstairs and woke Oswald.

“You smell like skillet grease,” Oswald yawned against Edward's cheek as Edward nuzzled and kissed the hopeless mess of Oswald's hair. “Has Olga set something on fire? Should I be concerned?”

“Get up,” Edward said, tugging him out of bed. “You have to get dressed and come with me.”

“I'm not getting any more dressed than you are,” Oswald said, sitting blearily on the edge of the mattress while Edward gathered his nightwear off the floor for him. “What the hell's going on?”

“You'll see,” Edward promised, helping Oswald into one article at a time. “It's nothing bad.”

“It's bad if I can't start off my day driving you wild,” Oswald said. “Was that how you put it?”

“Later,” Edward said, determined not to let shameless flirting tempt him back to bed. “C'mon.”

At the foot of the stairs, Edward insisted that Oswald let him cover his eyes with both hands.

“We're going to trip over each other and die,” said Oswald, dourly, shuffling his way cautiously forward with cane in hand and Edward's palms obscuring his field of vision. “Where am I going?”

“This way,” Edward said, maneuvering him past the entryway and toward the dining table. “In here.”

“If this is another of your non-traditional ideas about seduction, then it had better...” Oswald trailed off as Edward positioned him next to his seat at the head of the table. “Something smells wonderful.”

“What must be broken before it can be used?” Edward asked, tapping Oswald's head with one finger.

Oswald took a few pensive breaths, brow furrowed, his nostrils delicately flaring. “Is that eggs?”

“Correct,” replied Edward, pleased as he uncovered Oswald's eyes. “You're getting the hang of these.”

He watched Oswald's expression change from inquisitiveness to delight as he studied the spread of basil-and-feta omelets, strawberries, orange juice, and coffee. Edward wondered if heart-shaped egg whites were sappy overkill, but Oswald's happy sigh suggested otherwise.

“Oh, my dear Ed,” he breathed, tugging Edward's arms around his waist. “You spoil me rotten.”

Edward rocked him where they stood, distracted again by Oswald's hair. “You make it easy.”

Oswald turned and kissed Edward for what felt like a full minute before letting him pull out both of their chairs and get them settled. They started in on omelets and coffee that had gone slightly cooler than Edward would have liked.

Oswald didn't seem to notice. He methodically spooned sugar into his coffee.

“I suppose you told Olga to go home again,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Edward. “Naughty.”

Edward shrugged, deciding sugar in his coffee wouldn't hurt for once. “We have nowhere to be.”

“Then I'm going to enjoy whatever...alternative agenda you've come up with,” Oswald replied.

“I was thinking we might go back upstairs after we've eaten,” Edward admitted, cutting a precise section off the lower point of his omelet. “I knew you'd be cross about getting up so early.”

“You made it worth my while,” said Oswald, devouring a strawberry. “I'll make this worth yours.”

Edward doubted he'd even had the chance to stop blushing all morning. “You...excel at that.”

Oswald dabbed at his lower lip with a napkin, his eyes crinkling. “ _You_ make it easy.”

They ate in mutually-enamored silence for a few moments until Gabriel came into the room with a newspaper and an expensive envelope in hand.

Edward wondered furiously who had let Oswald's new chief bodyguard in, at least until he remembered that the man had a key.

“Here's your morning _Gazette_ , boss,” Gabriel said, setting the paper and envelope at Oswald's elbow, “and somethin' else I found propped against the door. That looks like Falcone's stationery.”

“Open it,” Oswald told Edward, handing him the envelope, eyes fixed on Gabriel. “Anything else?”

Edward had clearly missed something, because Oswald was prompting the man with needle-sharp intuition. He pretended to be absorbed in getting the ostentatiously-addressed missive open.

“Bad news about that disposal job you gave Zsasz and Aragon yesterday morning,” said Gabriel, with something that sounded like unease. “The usual guy couldn't do it. Somebody offed him.”

“Paulie Pennies is dead?” Oswald asked around a sip of orange juice. “How very unfortunate. Did the job get done anyway, or should I be concerned that Max is decomposing in somebody's trunk?”

“The job got done, boss,” Gabriel insisted. “It's just that Paulie was the best to work with, y'know?”

Oswald picked up the _Gazette_ , scanning the front page with distaste. “GCPD are all over it.”

Remembering the task he'd been assigned, Edward finally coaxed the gilt card out of its envelope.

“Oh dear,” he said, scanning the fresh-ink-scented invitation's looping script. “Oswald, we might...”

Oswald closed the paper in his lap, eyes reproachful on Gabriel for a second before shifting to Edward.

“What's the matter?” he asked, his tone one of genuine concern. “Have we been summoned away?”

Edward held out the card, biting his lip. “It seems you're a last-minute addition to the guest list for the engagement party that Carmine Falcone is throwing his son and Dr. Thompkins tonight,” he said.

Oswald took the card from Edward, scanning its contents in annoyance.

“An encouraging gesture, no doubt,” he said tersely, “for the old man to think of me in his retirement. Perhaps it would be prudent for us to go? Keep up appearances and all that. Show that The Sirens and last night didn't cow us.”

“Any public appearance you can afford to make will strengthen your influence,” Edward allowed, already irritated beyond measure that they wouldn't get the _entire_ day to themselves.

“It says I'm allowed a plus-one,” Oswald pointed out. “You're coming with me, of course.” He glanced at Gabriel, as if baffled why he was still there. “Get out of here! Go look into Pennies!”

“You got it, boss,” Gabriel sighed, slouching out of the room as if he'd already had a long day.

“It's a pity we haven't had time to revamp my wardrobe,” Edward said thoughtfully, cutting the remainder of his omelet in a satisfying grid. “I would've liked to turn up in something new.”

“Accessorizing,” Oswald reassured him, reaching to take Edward's hand. “I excel at that, too.”

Edward nodded, finishing his coffee, squeezing Oswald's fingers. “No eye make-up this time. It itched.”

After breakfast, they tried their luck with the shower again now that they weren’t in a rush. Edward discovered that it was relatively easy to lift Oswald and pin him against the wall, to wrap Oswald’s legs around his waist and drive against him while they kissed under the hot spray. 

Oswald came first, louder than Edward had yet had occasion to hear. Thirty seconds of Oswald shaking against him, and Edward’s knees buckled, the force of his climax almost bringing them to the floor of the shower in a slippery heap. When Oswald’s feet hit the tile, he could hardly stand.

“All right,” Oswald panted, leaning hard into Edward, arms wrapped around Edward’s waist, while Edward washed the previous night’s product out of Oswald’s hair. “We’re remodeling this bathroom.”

Edward kissed from Oswald’s soapy temple down to his freckled cheekbone, wordlessly grateful.

“You’re going to have to kneel if you want me to wash yours,” said Oswald, bringing one hand up to fuss with Edward’s soaked hair. “I really don’t think I can balance on tiptoe right now.”

As much as Oswald regretted it afterward, they enjoyed the awkward hilarity of Oswald straddling Edward’s lap on the shower floor in order to complete the job. Somehow, Edward found it even more intimately satisfying than the sex had been. 

They kissed for a while after the suds had washed away, sated enough to sleep for a few more hours.

“I blame you for this, Ed,” Oswald groused later while they were getting dressed, unable to get his hair to do what he wanted because he’d slept on it funny. “I might have to re-wash it.” 

“I doubt that,” Edward said, knotting the iridescent green-grey-turquoise gradient tie that Oswald had pointedly handed him to try out with one of his darker spruce-colored suits. The effect was startling.

“Well, you unfucked it that one time before the victory parade,” said Oswald, crankily, making his way from the dressing table to stand beside Edward in front of the full-length mirrors. “Care to try agai—oh, _goodness_ ,” he said, taking hold of Edward’s lapels, angling Edward toward him so that he could tuck the tie into Edward’s black brocade waistcoat for him. “You’re a vision.”

Edward peered over Oswald’s shoulder into the mirror, studying Oswald’s hair. Nothing looked awry.

“It’s sticking up in the back just the way you normally want it,” he offered. “No blow dryer required.”

“You’re still going to fix it for me,” Oswald told him, moving back to the dressing table, rummaging in one of its side drawers. “Here, let’s try this,” he said, coming back with [something glittering in his palm](http://irisbleufic.tumblr.com/post/159961312615/im-driving-myself-bonkers-trying-to-imagine-that). “I know you’re not usually into tie pins, but this one’s vintage. It was my father’s, maybe even my grandfather’s.”

Edward studied the abstract, delicate ten-karat Art Nouveau flourish that ended in a luminous seed-pearl. He took it out of Oswald’s hand, fascinated, tilting it just _so_. He smiled.

“Go ahead,” he told Oswald, satisfied that his image was headed in the right direction. “It’s perfect.”

Fixing Oswald’s hair was as much of an ordeal as it had been the first time he’d done it, not least because he _detested_ the gritty-tacky feel of the molding paste on his fingers. He made Oswald help him scrub his hands under near-scalding water until enough of it had come off.

“I won’t make you do that again,” said Oswald, chagrined, rubbing some light, orris-scented hand lotion into Edward’s rubbed-raw palms. “You said this helped last time. Does it?”

“It does,” Edward said. “They’ll feel like they’re back to normal in approximately fifteen minutes.”

Downstairs, Gabriel intercepted them with a report on the Pennies situation. GCPD had the city crawling with officers, which didn’t please Oswald—especially after what had happened at the docks the previous morning.

Once the bodyguard had departed, Oswald made a move for the decanter.

Edward stayed Oswald’s hand on the stopper, fingers flexing tentatively. “We’re going to dinner before the party,” he said. “Maybe start there? We’ll order a bottle of something nice.”

Oswald’s lips twisted in displeasure, but he gave in, toying with Edward’s tie pin. “I could ravish you on the sofa again, but that would be counterproductive to all of our preparations.”

“You can do that after the party,” Edward reassured him. “We seem to have formed a pattern. The less you divulge me, the fiercer I grow. The more you indulge me, the plainer I show. What am I?”

Oswald pursed his lips as if he was about to tell Edward off, but he planted a kiss on Edward instead.

“I think you made that up on the spot, you clever thing,” he said admiringly. “The answer is desire.”

“Guilty as charged,” replied Edward, smirking. “We should leave soon. Our reservation’s for seven.” On impulse, he took a step back, studying Oswald in his rakish pinstripes and two-tone shoes. “I can’t…” He licked his lips, determined to try again. “I can’t get over how…”

Oswald broke into one of those smiles so tender that all thoughts escaped him, setting a finger against Edward’s lips. “Why don’t you text Ms. Fowler,” he said. “Tell her to be here in ten minutes.”

Edward nodded, overwhelmed, glad to have a concrete task on which to focus. God, he was in love.

On the ride to dinner, Oswald tolerated Edward requesting that the divider stay open so that he could pose a sequence of riddles to Caroline while she drove. She got two out of seven, and Oswald guessed three—but there was no overlap between their correct answers. Edward felt like he’d recovered sufficient control over his headspace by the time they arrived at the Clermont.

Tucked away in a private booth normally occupied by the likes of Bruce Wayne, Edward helped Oswald blow through two trays of Moon Shoal oysters, lazy lobster, and some kind of creamed-spinach side that tasted better than it looked. They also demolished a bottle of 2004 Dom Pérignon Brut, which Edward had wanted to try for quite some time.

“Lily-of-the-valley,” Edward said in Oswald’s ear, once they were back in the limousine with the final quarter of the bottle in tow. Oswald passed it to him, so he drank deeply. “That’s in the tasting notes.”

“You _nerd_ ,” Oswald sighed, snatching back the bottle. He polished it off in three swallows.

“Not the kind of lilies your mother liked, but it’s lilies all the same,” Edward observed, staring at Oswald’s champagne-glossed lips. He kissed the last traces off them, dangerously tipsy.

“I didn’t think I’d be the one telling _you_ to sober up,” Oswald murmured teasingly against Edward’s lips, licking into Edward’s mouth with a hum, “but _sober up_. This is a classy affair.”

“Shut up,” Edward said, eyes closed, breathing hard against Oswald’s cheek. “ _Mmm_. Oswald.”

“Park around the side,” Oswald instructed Caroline. “We’re going to sit this out a few minutes.”

“You’ve gotta get his tolerance up, boss,” Caroline called back, lighting a cigarette. After a few puffs, she ventured, “Listen, you want one of these? You stare like you’re jonesing when I got ’em.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Oswald huffed, which was a sufficient reason for Edward to open his eyes just in time to see Caroline pass the freshly-lit Pall Mall back through the divider. “Just one. For old times’ sake.”

“I tried those once,” Edward said, rapt as he watched Oswald take a practiced puff. “Inconclusive.”

“As to whether or not you enjoyed the experience?” Oswald ventured, raising his eyebrows at Edward. He held out the cigarette, clearly offering. “This wouldn’t be my preferred brand by far.”

“Different strokes for different folks,” said Caroline, flatly, already having lit another for herself.

Edward took the Pall Mall between his index and middle finger, raising it to his lips. He was proud of himself for managing not to cough, but the nicotine buzz didn’t do his semi-muddled head any favors.

“Fish once gave me half a pack of really nice Dunhills as a tip,” Oswald said. “I…kind of enjoyed them, but they were a luxury I couldn’t afford.” He took several more drags as soon as Edward handed the cigarette back to him, cracking the window to pitch out what was left. “Now that I can…”

“You’d look dashing with one of those ebony holders,” Edward said before he could stop himself.

Brushing the ash off his hands, Oswald gave Edward a considering look. “Will you buy me one?”

“If you want one,” Edward replied automatically, rubbing Oswald’s thigh. “Will you buy me a suit?”

“I’ll buy you so many _more_ suits you won’t even know what to do with them,” Oswald said.

“Much as I’d love to keep listenin’ to you lovebirds, this party isn’t gonna wait,” Caroline interjected.

“True,” Oswald replied, brushing a few stray flecks of ash off his coat. He pushed the door open, cane in hand, stepping into the street. He leaned back inside, offering Edward his hand. “Shall we?”

Edward took it, feeling for the second time in as many days as if he’d stepped into some fairytale.

“You probably know this already,” said Oswald, conversationally, as they made their way up the elegant staircase arm-in-arm, “but this is one of Gotham’s oldest, most historic buildings. The Falcone family has owned it for generations. It serves as event-space, offices, and storage all in one.”

“I knew the Falcones owned this property,” Edward confirmed, “but I didn’t know its purpose.”

They reached the ballroom level, where a steward greeted them and took both their invitation and coats.

“You’ll find this crowd more agreeable than the Founders’ Dinner, I think,” said Oswald, striding ahead of Edward as they entered the bustling room. “I certainly know I will.”

“Dr. Thompkins is a former colleague of mine,” Edward offered. “GCPD. It’ll be nice to see her, although I doubt she’ll feel the same way about seeing me. Last time, she punched me.”

Oswald had already spotted the bride-to-be, resplendent in red, at the center of the room.

“I won’t leave your side if I can help it,” Oswald promised, gritting his teeth. “I’ll ensure it doesn’t happen again.” He took Edward’s arm, leading him swiftly along. “Let’s get this over with.”

Edward wasn’t sure that a direct confrontation was necessarily the best idea, but he followed anyway.

Leslie was so surprised to see the two of them approach that she nearly dropped her champagne flute.

“Dr. Thompkins,” said Oswald, accepting a glass for himself, and then a glass for Edward, from the server. “As mayor, I feel it's my sacred duty to bestow congratulations upon the nuptials of such a fine couple.” He raised his glass, so Edward did, too. “Many happy returns.”

Leslie hadn’t looked away from Edward through the entirety of Oswald’s speech. She looked furious.

“Thank you, Mayor Cobblepot,” she said tersely, but she didn’t raise her glass. “How did you get in?”

“Me?” Edward asked, taking a sip of champagne, deciding to play the part he’d been assigned and _enjoy_ it. “I’m Oswald’s plus-one. The invitation was explicit about those being permitted.”

“Your father-in-law-to-be extended a last-minute invitation,” Oswald clarified. “We’re most grateful.”

Leslie downed about half her glass in one swallow. “I never should've let him control the guest list.”

Oswald’s smile took on a strained quality. He took Edward’s arm and tucked it close against his chest.

“Your father-in-law-to-be possesses a flawless grasp of decorum,” he said with veiled sarcasm. “Ed.”

Edward waved at Leslie as they turned to mingle. “Congratulations, Lee,” he said. “You deserve it.”

Oswald greeted and exchanged niceties with several more luminaries, most of whom Edward recognized from his duties around city hall. They all seemed to give Edward the same appraisal that they gave him when he was managing Oswald’s itinerary: contextually noteworthy, but dismissible.

Someone clinked a spoon against their glass, indicating that the endless toasts were about to start.

“I went to a wedding once,” Edward muttered under his breath as Oswald turned them to observe the proceedings from a safe distance. “A couple of years ago. It was a GCPD colleague. I hated it.”

“We’ll only stay long enough to make sure I’ve shaken every hand that needs shaking,” Oswald said.

“My father and I haven't always seen eye to eye,” said Mario Calvi, loudly, turning to Carmine Falcone. “But I think, Dad, you'll agree that marrying Lee is the best decision I've ever made.”

“Without a doubt,” agreed Falcone, with genuine fondness, raising his champagne flute to his son.

“My only regret is that my parents…” Oswald began, but he closed his mouth again just as swiftly.

“What?” Edward asked, turning his head to regard Oswald in profile. Oswald’s eyes were bright.

“And Lee, you're a doctor, a member of our city's police department,” Mario said, turning to his fiancée. “You're funny, compassionate, and brilliant. Despite insisting all dogs are boys and all cats are girls—it's hopeless, I've tried to correct her—I've loved you since the moment I saw you.”

Edward watched as Mario kissed Leslie, taken in. He wondered how he and Oswald looked when…

“I think maybe I know what that feels like,” he whispered, fumbling at his side for Oswald’s hand.

Oswald took it, turning his head, squeezing Edward’s fingers as if startled. “How what feels?”

“The first time I saw you,” Edward went on. “In person, anyway. At GCPD. Even though I was…”

Oswald gave him a smile that was all at once rueful and giddy. “I didn’t love _you_ at first sight,” he whispered back. “I found you irritating in the extreme. No sense of personal boundaries.”

“You told me I was standing too close, so I stepped back,” Edward replied. “But you stepped right back into my space a split-second later, and we were just as close to each other as before.”

Oswald inclined his head as the crowd applauded. “I owe you a kiss,” he whispered in Edward’s ear.

“I don’t think we can hide the extent of this for much longer,” Edward confessed. “Or if we should.”

“What was it you said about us weathering scandal?” Oswald asked, his eyebrows knit in concern.

“I think I was wrong,” Edward said. “More than half of Gotham’s underworld now knows we’re an item, and anyone who saw us together at The Sirens and last night _definitely_ knows it," he continued, tightening his grasp on Oswald’s hand. “It’ll humanize you. Endear you to doubters.”

“I must confess,” Oswald admitted, grinning at him, “that I’d like to be perfectly clear about it.”

A flash of gold-and-white brocade caught Edward’s attention just then. Barbara was waving at them.

“Look at what the Penguin dragged in,” she said, stepping close to them. “Nice _catch_ , Ozzie.”

“Barbara,” said Oswald, smugly finishing off his champagne. “Where’s your charming wife tonight?”

“I’m not exactly _officially_ here,” she said, distracted by the appearance of Leslie. “Later, boys.”

“Barbara,” Edward heard Leslie say as Barbara approached her in predatory fashion. “How did you—”

“Get in? As a plus-one,” Barbara replied impishly. “With that guy there. Or it might have been _him_.” 

“Dr. Thompkins must be having a rough night with the rogues’ gallery on her doorstep,” Oswald said.

“I know,” said Edward, cheerfully, taking Oswald’s empty glass. “I’ll find a server and hand these off.”

“You’re an angel,” replied Oswald, fawning over Edward ostentatiously, fingers poised on his tie pin.

Edward couldn’t help but notice, as he meandered his way through the crowd after a fast-moving server, that Captain Barnes had approached Leslie. While he couldn’t overhear their conversation, he lingered in their vicinity just long enough after disposing of the glasses to notice that Barnes seemed preoccupied with a guest Edward had recognized. The man was a prominent surgeon— _Simon_ , or was it _Symon_ —

“Hey,” said a familiar voice to Edward’s right as something impacted his elbow. “Watch where you’re—”

Edward stared unblinking at Jim Gordon for a moment even as Jim stood there looking gobsmacked.

“What are you doing here?” Jim asked, eyes darting toward Leslie as Barnes walked away from her and Mario stepped in to take Barnes’s place. “Listen, I, _uh_ —never mind, don’t answer that.”

“I’ve got to find Oswald,” Edward said curtly, turning on his heel. _And find the restroom_ , he thought. Given that Oswald was nowhere in sight, it made more sense to find the latter first.

It took Edward the better part of ten minutes to get from where he was to the entrance to the ballroom. He narrowly avoided making eye contact with Harvey Bullock in passing, although he managed to overhear what he’d said to the junior officer next to him: something about _Pennies_.

“Oh dear,” Edward said under his breath, finally catching sight of the men’s room out of the corner of his eye. Just as he made a bee-line for the door, Captain Barnes exited the facilities looking distracted.

Once Edward was inside, he could see why. The damage was catastrophic, from the single bashed-in stall door to the hole in the brick wall a glaring blood-stain on the edge of the granite trough sink.

He relieved himself in the remaining intact stall as quickly as he could, making a perfunctory examination of the crime scene on his way out. He peered out the hole in the wall, into frigid dusk, and saw a body splayed on the roof of a car far below. Onlookers had begun to gather.

“Oh _dear_ ,” he repeated, exiting the men’s room as fast as he could, thankfully unobserved.

Shakily re-entering the ballroom, Edward found Oswald chatting with Falcone at the bar. There seemed to be an air of relaxed familiarity between them, as if bygones truly were bygones.

“Ed, there you are!” Oswald exclaimed, overjoyed, clapping Edward on the back. “This is my chief of staff,” he told Falcone, keeping Edward in the circle of his arm. “Mr. Edward Nygma.”

Falcone took hold of Edward’s numbly-offered hand, shaking it cordially. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said. “Some of it more intriguing than the rest. Above all, Oswald says you’re a sharp cookie.”

“I don’t like cookies all that much,” Edward said, cursing himself for the automatic, stress-induced literal response, “but thank you, Don Falcone. Your reputation precedes you as well.”

Oswald was side-eyeing him in concern. “Great to see you again,” he told Falcone, making an incredible show of shaking the man’s hand. “Please call on me any time.” He promptly hustled Edward away from the bar, not coming to a stop until they were next to the exit. “What happened?”

“I don’t think I can tell you until we’re outside,” said Edward, apprehensively. “And everyone’s going to find out in about five minutes, if that. All it’ll take is somebody else using the…facilities.”

“Sounds serious,” said Oswald, his expression darkening. “Let’s get our coats and head out of here.”

At the head of the stairs, Harvey Bullock and Jim Gordon were engaged in heated conversation. Edward realized there was no way they’d ever get around the detectives without being noticed, and Oswald had already zeroed in on Jim with whatever perpetual fascination he reserved for the man.

“Jim, you and Mario have a heart-to-heart?” Harvey was saying, looking somewhat worse for wear.

“Yeah, where's Symon?” Jim replied furtively as Oswald and Edward approached him from behind.

“No luck,” responded Harvey, dejected. “He must have skedaddled. Thought he might be at the bar.”

“Okay,” Jim said, turning just enough to catch sight of Oswald, the set of his lips turning grim. “Keep a perimeter in case he shows back up. I'm gonna head to his house. And Harvey…take it easy, huh? 

“It's good to have you back again, Jim,” said Harvey, clapping him on the shoulder. He swore when he caught sight of Edward and Oswald, shifting so they could insinuate themselves in the circle.

“I speak on behalf of all of city hall when I say that we couldn't agree more,” said Oswald, amiably, offering one detective after the other his hand, which they each shook with displeasure. “Hello, Jim.”

Edward gave Jim and Harvey his best facsimile of an energetic little wave. Both men looked put-out.

“You're becoming a regular socialite, huh, Ed?” asked Harvey, caustically, giving Oswald a begrudging nod. “Nice to see you again so soon, Mr. Mayor. Last night's excitement wasn't enough?”

Jim turned to Oswald, wearing the look he reserved for when his temper was about to get the better of him. “How's this one working out for you?” he asked, pointing at Edward. “Not too shabby, I hope? Shame I wasn't around to give him a reference. I would’ve said you could have done better.”

Elated in spite of the urgency with which he knew they needed to leave, Edward watched the joviality drain from Oswald’s face. High color replaced it, that fetching, angry pink flush beneath Oswald's fine freckles. Edward wanted to catalogue every last one of them.

“You can forget about those favors I’m still owed,” Oswald told Jim, making an extravagant show of tucking Edward’s arm over his own. “I'm suddenly disinclined to redeem them, especially when it'll be you, before too long, who'll be coming to _me_. Which isn’t that big a shift from the status quo to begin with.” He spared Harvey a poisonous glance. “Have a splendid evening, gentlemen.”

Edward scarcely registered the fact that Oswald had kissed his cheek within full view of the detectives until they were nearly to the end of the staircase. Once there, he gladly let Oswald bundle him into his coat, and then returned the favor.

Jim and Harvey brushed past, still gawping. Edward locked eyes with Jim over Oswald’s shoulder.

“No reference required,” he said with an icy smile. “My existing documentation was sufficient.”


	12. Checkmate

Oswald was relieved to see not only Caroline loitering outside the limousine, but also Gabriel, Zsasz, and Vee. Caroline and Vee were both smoking, the two of them engaged in subdued conversation.

“In case you hadn't noticed,” Oswald announced, in considerable discomfort, leaning heavily on Edward's arm even though he had use of his cane as well, “this place is a war zone because somebody pushed one of their fellow illustrious guests through a bathroom wall.”

“Yeah, _and_?” Zsasz prompted, arms spread wide. “This place is crawling with Bullock and his lackeys. I figured you were safer inside than out because you're so damn tight with him and Gordon.”

“That relationship is now tenuous at best,” said Oswald, thinly, dragging Edward along as he approached Caroline. “I need another one,” he said sheepishly. “Stressful night.”

“Ain't gonna argue with that, Mr. C,” she said, sticking a fresh Pall Mall between her lips alongside the one she was still working on, lighting it in a flash. “Here,” she said, handing it over to him.

“Thanks,” Oswald said, taking a torturously slow drag. He felt dizzy as the nicotine hit, swaying.

“Our food-to-alcohol ratio for the evening isn't great,” Edward pointed out, propping him up. “Maybe I should make you something once we get back. Unfortunately, Olga's still—”

“Gosh, would you look at that,” said Zsasz, proudly clapping Edward on the arm. “He even cooks!”

Edward recoiled, glaring at the hit-man. “How many times do I even need to _tell_ you—”

Oswald let go of Edward's arm, stepping between Zsasz and Edward, taking another heady drag.

“ _Never_ lay a hand on Ed,” he said, blowing smoke in Zsasz's face, “unless his life depends on it.”

“It's not like Vic's the sharpest crayon in the box, boss,” Vee offered, stamping out the butt of her finished cigarette, setting a hand on the back door of the limousine. “We should get out of here.”

“I concur,” said Edward, curtly, tugging Oswald over as Vee held the door open. “Give me that,” he said, taking the cigarette off Oswald's hands, sticking it in his mouth while he helped Oswald into the car. He followed immediately, taking a seat next to Oswald, blowing smoke as he removed the cigarette from between his lips. “Something tells me this wouldn't be my brand, either.”

Oswald took the Pall Mall back from him as Vee followed them inside and pulled the door shut.

“I take it your gentleman colleagues will be taking up the rear in Gabriel's vehicle?” he asked.

“That's right,” she said, watching Oswald suck the cigarette down to nothing. “Been a while?”

“Several years,” Oswald admitted, pitching the butt outside as Caroline got them on the road.

Edward was quiet for the entirety of the ride home. He didn't release Oswald's hand even when it was time to get out of the car, awkwardly drawing Oswald along behind him. It wasn't difficult to guess the source of Edward's agitation, not when he'd been vibrating ever since Oswald had kissed him on the cheek in front of two GCPD detectives.

“Same drill as every night this week,” Oswald told Vee. “Let the others know when they arrive.”

“You got it, boss,” she said, hazel eyes intently focused beneath the shock of sapphire-dyed hair that contrasted with her dark skin. “I'll give the asshat a talking-to. Where'd you dig him up, anyway?”

“Victor goes wherever there's an optimal confluence of money and amusement,” said Oswald, opening the mansion's front door for Edward, insisting that he go inside. “Lucky me?” he concluded.

“Good night, Mr. N,” Caroline called after them as Oswald followed Edward inside. “Don't stress!”

They took a few minutes to shed their coats and shoes, neither one of them in a hurry to speak. 

Edward took Oswald's coat away from him and hung it next to his own, offering Oswald his arm as a bolster while he struggled to untie one shoe after the other. He wriggled out of his own one foot at a time, not even bothering to unlace them.

Uncharacteristic, for Edward to be so imprecise.

“The men's room was a disaster,” Edward said. “That plastic surgeon, Dr. Symon—he consulted for us a few times on cases at GCPD—had his head bashed off the rim of the sink and was bodily used to break down a stall door _before_ the perpetrator put him through that wall.”

“You've seen similar aftermath hundreds of times, Ed,” said Oswald, limping closer to Edward, brushing the faintest rasp of stubble at his cheek. “I don't think that's what has you rattled.”

Edward nodded in agreement. “Captain Barnes came out of the restroom just as I was entering it.”

“That doesn't necessarily mean anything,” said Oswald, hoping to soothe Edward's agitation. “Maybe he'd just discovered the murder and was on his way to inform Detectives Bullock and Gordon.”

Fiercely, Edward shook his head. “Captain Barnes broke protocol,” he explained. “He should have come out of there shouting for everyone to keep their distance, declaring it a crime scene and summoning the other officers to establish a perimeter. Glimpse me from a distance, and you may not mind me. Look me in the eyes, and you'll wish you'd fled me. What am I?”

“I don't _know_ , Ed,” replied Oswald, keeping his exasperation in check as best he could. “And, whatever it is, I don't know what it has to do with—”

“Guilt,” Edward said. “The look I saw on his face was one I saw around the station so many times in a day that I learned what it meant inside my first month. That kind of distraction is _forced_.”

Oswald nodded slowly, meeting Edward's expectant gaze. “I believe you, but how do you suppose...”

“Barnes is a large man, but I doubt he has the baseline strength to throw someone through several feet of solid, multi-material construction,” Edward replied, guiding Oswald toward the stairs.

“On drugs, perhaps?” Oswald suggested, hissing in pain with every upward step. “Adrenaline rush?”

“You have to wonder who's been exposed to this virus Tetch attempted to unleash,” Edward said moodily, pausing to let Oswald catch his balance. “I'm getting some painkillers in you ASAP.”

“The symptoms haven't been made entirely clear,” Oswald said, making a push up the last few steps.

“No, but it seems to me that they might vary from subject to subject,” Edward ventured, getting the bedroom door open so that Oswald could hobble over to the bed. “And, in many cases, impart inhuman abilities. Tetch's sister, Alice, was one of the so-called monsters from Indian Hill.”

“Captain of Gotham Police,” sighed Oswald, loosening his tie. “ _Infected_. Now there's a story.”

“Bullock and Gordon will interrogate every guest they can manage to track down,” said Edward, stripping down to his underthings, tossing his clothes over the dressing table's stool. He came back to Oswald's bed, crawling across the expanse of it until he could kneel behind Oswald and help with the removal of jacket, shirt, and tie. “This is different from last night. They'll mean business.”

“I meant what I said to Jim,” said Oswald, shimmying out of his trousers, letting them drop to the floor.

Edward fetched pills from the bottle on the nightstand, along with Oswald's unfinished glass of water.

“I appreciate that you'll do whatever it takes to protect me,” Edward said, dumping the dose in Oswald's left palm, wrapping his right around the glass. “Understand, though, that I'll do the same for you.”

“I won't let them interrogate you alone,” Oswald muttered, shoving the pills in his mouth. “They'll speak to us together or not at all, and I'll be _damned_ before they try to frame and send us...”

Edward met Oswald's eyes over the rim of the glass as he gulped what was left of the water, nodding.

“It's almost midnight,” he said quietly, taking the glass from Oswald, setting it aside. “We should rest.”

“I'm not feeling up to anything else,” Oswald admitted, rubbing the side of his neck. “I'm sorry, it's...”

“Neither am I,” Edward insisted, throwing back the covers. “I won't sleep until I've figured this out.”

“Chances are we already have,” Oswald yawned, flopping on his back while Edward cozied up to him.

Edward reached to turn off the light, irritated that it meant momentarily shifting away from Oswald.

“I wish I could see the overarching strategy,” he said, resting his head against Oswald's chest, “but I'm missing most of the pieces. I can track how some of them are moving, but not all of them.”

“Worry about _our_ moves,” said Oswald, sleepily, “and something tells me the rest will follow.”

As promised, Edward passed an especially fitful night. Oswald found it impossible not to wake each time Edward shifted, sighed, or beat whisper-soft staccato against the headboard. Oswald idly wondered if Edward had ever considered trying sleeping pills, but realized that perhaps Arkham had left him with an aversion to medication.

Around three o’clock in the morning, Oswald grabbed Edward’s hand in a fit of exhausted frustration. He stuck two of Edward’s restless fingers in his mouth and sucked _hard_ , stunned at how thrillingly erotic it felt to use his tongue and teeth on parts of Edward that were usually otherwise—and much more practically—occupied.

Edward froze, breath stuttering past his lips in a sentiment somewhere between protest and arousal.

“If you can’t get to sleep, then it’s clear I’m not going to get any, either,” Oswald said pointedly, switching from Edward’s index and middle fingers to his thumb. “If sleep isn’t going to happen, then I might as well change the meaning of _any_ and make sure we both get _some_.”

From what Oswald could feel against his hip, impromptu wordplay had shifted Edward from annoyed to excited in a matter of seconds. Tired, but triumphant, he bit Edward’s earlobe.

“Why don’t you find something else to do with those clever fingers, seeing as they’re already wet?”

Edward made a desperate, muffled sound against Oswald’s collarbone. “The…thing you asked for?”

Oswald felt his pulse quicken, thrilled at the thought even though his painkillers had begun to wear off.

“Let’s call it what it is, Ed,” he said blandly, rolling Edward underneath him, licking a stripe up Edward’s unfairly attractive neck. “If you still like the idea of putting your working knowledge of anatomy to use, then believe me when I say that fingering _wouldn’t_ go amiss.”

“Oh, I love you,” Edward mumbled, shoving Oswald onto his back. “Where, _ah_ , do you keep…”

Oswald felt dizzy at both the abrupt change in position and at Edward’s easy, unhindered declaration.

“There’s some in the dressing-table drawer,” he said encouragingly. “One of us will have to go get it.”

“Don’t move,” Edward said, planting an off-center kiss against Oswald’s mouth as he got up, eyes catching what scant, cold light filtered through the windows. “Unless you think it would be more comfortable for you if you turned—”

“I’d rather try this looking you in the eyes, if it’s all the same,” Oswald told him, levering himself up on his elbows to squint after Edward’s progress across the darkened room. He moved soundlessly, entrancing even only as suggestion of movement.

Edward switched on the dressing-table light and proceeded to rummage through both of the drawers. He came up with a half-spent metallic tube of surgical-grade lubricant, admiring the fact that Oswald had neatly rolled the end at every stage of use. He shed his undershirt and stepped out of his boxers before coming back to bed, leaving the dressing-table light on.

“I’m glad we won’t be having the toothpaste argument,” he said, tossing the tube down on his pillow before kissing Oswald impossibly deep into the goose-down give of his own. “The number of fights…”

Oswald returned the kiss with equal fervor, determined to distract Edward from whatever dark place to which that errant thought was leading him.

“I’ve managed several fingers. In the past, I mean," he clarified, enjoying how wantonly Edward shivered in his arms.

“Those are _your_ fingers,” Edward observed, taking up the tube and pensively unscrewing the cap, kneeling between Oswald’s spread thighs. “Mine are longer, and there’s variance in width to account for, too.”

“Then aim for giving me two instead of three!” replied Oswald, impatiently, watching Edward test the consistency of the lubricant between his fingertips. “I’m seriously not picky right now, Ed.”

“I hope you’re particular about the fact that it _is_ my fingers,” Edward said with faint amusement, thoroughly slicking his right index finger. “You…don’t want me to use a condom or a latex glove for cover, or…? I didn’t see anything like that in the—”

Oswald leaned up just long enough to kiss him quiet and situate both pillows behind himself so that he was slightly propped up.

“I’ve seen the medical record in your staff file,” he said. “You get tested so frequently as to make it look obsessive-compulsive. Are you just that much of a Casanova, or you like having data on yourself _that_ badly? I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess it’s the latter.”

“You know me so well,” sighed Edward, happily, pitching the tube aside. He made a come-hither motion with the finger he’d spent the better part of a minute slicking. “How do you…want it?”

“We’ll work on the dirty-talk later,” Oswald sighed, dragging Edward’s hand into position. “Slow.”

Edward nodded, brushing his slick fingertip tantalizingly against Oswald before pulling away again.

“Where are my manners,” he muttered, fumbling in the sheets until he'd found the tube again. The light from across the room cast him in rosy light and stark shadow, infinitely appealing as he covered the entirety of his palm before capping the tube again. “Before I start _that_ , I should...”

Oswald stifled a startled groan as Edward wrapped his slick hand around Oswald's erection. In this, the instruction of _slow_ didn't seem to apply. Oswald wasn't about to challenge that notion, but he knew from previous explorations that Edward's touch would finish him if they weren't careful.

Edward stroked him at a flawless pace until all Oswald could gasp was _stop, stop, stop or I'll_ —

“Then that's enough,” Edward agreed, letting Oswald slip from his grasp. He braced himself as far forward over Oswald as he could, dipping down to catch Oswald's mouth in a demanding kiss. “One,” he whispered between maddeningly distracting brushes of his tongue against Oswald's, working one knuckle, _two_ past the breach so deftly that Oswald felt pressure instead of discomfort.

“How the _hell_ did you do that,” Oswald muttered, biting Edward's lower lip so hard that Edward cried out.

Edward kept kissing him, already massaging some spot inside of Oswald that made him gasp and twitch at the resistance of Edward's thighs resting against the insides of his own. “I can feel my way as skillfully as any doctor,” he said, offering the pleased, nerdy smile to which he succumbed every time someone praised him for doing something clever. “But this context has the added bonuses of living tissue and response, and I already know some of your responses well. To kissing and to manual stimulation, for example. So if I apply those first and even _during_ —”

“No science,” Oswald choked, hips jerking off the mattress at the sudden jolt of sensation resulting from the introduction of a second fingertip. He'd never been able to relax doing this to himself. “ _Or_ riddles. I mean it, Ed. I want to focus—”

“You won't be able to focus on _anything_ by the time I'm finished with you,” said Edward, with the same kind of bright levity he might reserve for saying _good morning_ around the office. Comforting, to know the detachment of his tone was deceptive.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Oswald gasped, bearing down hard with his hips as Edward turned his hand just _so_ , driving both index and middle fingers into Oswald up to the second joint. He'd never been able to hit such an angle alone.

“And if I do this—” Edward said, and, oh, whatever it was, Oswald didn't even _know_ “—you'll start to feel pretty swell in five, four, three, two, _one_ —”

He punctuated each number with a shallow, pointed jab that didn't even take his fingers knuckle-deep.

“ _Ed_!” Oswald raged through gritted teeth, nearly furious that Edward had pitched him into sensation so raw and piercing that he was already coming messily onto his stomach.

“Oh my,” Edward sighed, rocking back onto his heels, using his free hand to stroke Oswald's cheek while he shivered through the aftershocks that Edward, damn him, was intensifying. “That's better in practice than in theory,” he sighed, stilling his hand for a moment before he withdrew.

“I hate you,” whimpered Oswald, in truth more ecstatic than angry, winding his arms around Edward's neck as Edward pitched forward to lie on top of him. “You clever _fucking_ —I swear I'll—”

“I hope the end of that sentence is _give you a nice hand job_ , because that's really what I want from you right now,” Edward admitted, breath hitching as he bit lightly at Oswald's neck.

“Get the...” Oswald gestured vaguely in the direction of the nightstand, although Edward seemed to understand that he meant the handkerchief Oswald had, as usual, discarded there earlier. “Good,” he said, managing to close his shaky fingers around the tube while Edward made faces at his hurried clean-up job. “Okay, so I don't know how you want to...”

Edward threw the handkerchief on the floor, maneuvering himself until he was on his side and Oswald, able to drape his left leg over both of Edward's, was spooned close behind him. “Like this,” he said.

“I know you,” Oswald sighed, regaining the capacity for speech even as Edward, with Oswald's lube-slick fingers gently teasing at the head of his erection, lost it. “Know you can't _think_ when I—”

“Oswald,” Edward panted, catching the back of Oswald's hand with his palm, using it to press the entirety of his hardness against his heaving belly, “now is _not_ the time to— _fuck_!”

“Oh, it's the time to tease you all right,” said Oswald, smug as Edward's release pooled in his palm.

Edward turned his face sideways into the pillow, each breath a belabored rasp. “So...that happened.”

Oswald kissed the back of Edward's neck, disengaged from him, and wiped his hand on the comforter before kicking it to the foot of the bed. Not the smartest action he'd ever executed with his bad leg, especially not given the instantaneous, _burning_ muscle spasm it got him, but he hissed his way through it and got back to kissing the sensitive patch of skin between Edward's shoulder blades.

“Are you falling asleep on me?” Oswald whispered, tucking his chin over Edward's shoulder.

Edward mumbled something indistinct into the pillows, his hand on Oswald's forearm clutching it tighter against his middle. He sagged into the mattress, all the restlessness gone out of him.

“Good,” Oswald sighed, nuzzling into the space between pillow and Edward's nape, closing his eyes.

Waking an indeterminate amount of time later to the dressing-table light still on and somebody banging frantically on the bedroom door was _not_ exactly what Oswald had planned. He groaned, tightening the arm he had curled around Edward's middle, displeased at the throb in his knee.

“Oswald!” called a voice he wasn't at _all_ accustomed to hearing address him by his first name. “ _Oswald_! Are you even _hearing_ the thing I have—”

“Olga, what the _hell_?” Oswald demanded loudly, lifting his head so that Edward wouldn't take the brunt of his shouting, letting his eyes sweep over the clock on the opposite wall. “It's eleven!”

“There is a policeman wanting to see you!” she insisted, banging again. “I could not—”

“ _There_ he is,” Edward groaned, grinding both fists into his eyes. “Your friend and mine.”

“Goddamn it,” Oswald hissed, disentangling himself from Edward, stumbling as he got out of bed. “Olga, will you serve him some tea while we...” He gathered as many articles of clothing belonging to both of them as he could, tossing them onto the bed next to a sleepy, thoroughly-fucked Ed. “Can you tell me what he looks like? Is it the hairy one with a perpetual hangover, or—”

“Is the handsome one from TV,” said Olga, helpfully. “I go bring him biscuits from kitchen.”

“Not my favorite ones!” Edward shouted, frantically struggling into his shirt and trousers.

“We're going to look like something the cat dragged in, you know that, right,” said Oswald, shrugging into his jacket, hissing in agony as he made his way over to the mirrors. “ _Damn it_.”

“At least it's both of us,” Edward offered, appearing beside him, making a comical face at the hopeless state of his hair. He straightened his glasses on the bridge of his nose, shrugging. “Socks or slippers?”

“Slippers,” Oswald muttered, casting about for both pairs. “Jim Gordon deserves whatever he gets.”

By the time they made their way into the sitting room and planted themselves on the sofa opposite the one on which Olga had situated their guest, Jim had eaten his way through a quarter of the biscuit tin.

“Good morning,” he said, unsuccessfully masking a look that was so similar to the one he'd given them on waking up in Edward's old apartment that Oswald had to stifle a snicker. “These aren't half bad.”

“No,” Edward agreed, lips twisting in disgust as he scooted closer to Oswald. “They're the best.”

“Good morning to you, too, Detective,” said Oswald, smirking through his impulse to laugh. “To what do we owe your visit on this _fine_ Sunday morning? Was our little chat last night insufficient?”

“Business is business,” Jim said, eyeing Edward so disdainfully that it made Oswald furious. “Routine questioning of witnesses. Given we go way back, I thought I'd pay a visit to you guys first.”

“Some advance warning would've been nice,” Edward said tautly. “A phone-call, or maybe a text.”

“That's true, Jim,” Oswald said, extending an arm across the back of the sofa such that Edward leaned into it without thinking. “We'd been counting on a quiet morning to ourselves, maybe breakfast in—”

“So let me get this straight, you...” Jim pinched the bridge of his nose, as if recognizing his choice of words for the Freudian slip it was. “Back when I saw the two of you together at Ed's place, you...”

“Were just friends,” supplied Oswald, looking to Edward, receiving a solemn nod of approval. “Falling for each other, maybe, but we didn’t know that. We'd only been rooming together about a week.”

Jim gave a curt nod, staring at his notebook as he jotted something in it. “And now you're...”

“If this is information you need for the record, I'm happy to explicitly state it,” said Edward, folding Oswald's hand between his own, cradling it against his thigh. “Oswald is my partner.”

“And also your employer,” Jim pointed out, with implication. “How do you think the public will react when the full extent of this hits local media?”

“Anyone who saw that footage from The Sirens last week knows _exactly_ how I feel,” replied Oswald, relieved that it wasn't necessary to feign earnestness for once. “I love Edward with all my heart, and I trust that the good people of Gotham can see that it hasn't prevented us from getting the job done. In fact—if anything, it's helped!”

“I see,” Jim said, jotting down a few more notes, muttering something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like _only in Gotham_. “Ed, where were you in the lead-up to your arrival at the engagement party around nine thirty last night?”

“With Oswald,” Edward replied. “From the moment I woke up around seven thirty yesterday morning to the moment we left here for our evening reservation at the Clermont.”

“So you're his alibi?” Jim asked Oswald, incredulously chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Oswald nodded, realizing that the addition of anything more smug than the smile he was already wearing would have been cruel.

“He was in my bed—or in my shower, or at my table—the _entire_ time, and I have both the bruises and the receipts to prove it. I can provide five other individuals willing to vouch for our whereabouts at various stages if you like.”

Jim rubbed his left temple while he added something else to his notes. “Man, I'm sorry I asked.”

Edward gave him a disdainful look. “You find it inconceivable that anyone could find either one of us desirable," he said, measuring his words for maximum impact, "much less that we could find _each other_ desirable?”

“Oh, no,” Jim reassured him, snapping the notebook shut. “That's not what I find unbelievable here.  You two are obviously peas in a pod.”

Oswald felt his heart swell with pride as Edward gave Jim a serene, self-satisfied, _regal_ smile.

“We were both discharged from Arkham after having been legally declared sane,” he said with low, frost-bitten authority that made Oswald shiver. “We've done our time, been put through countless therapies, yet you're determined to target us simply because Oswald's obligations as mayor and my dedication to him as both chief of staff and romantic companion have placed us at several high-profile events during which crimes have been committed by verifiably unbalanced individuals. Low, Jim. _Very_ low. I can't help but question whether this might be some kind of personal vendetta. Is it that we've attained both the redemption _and_ the contentment that you so desperately crave?”

Stiffly, Jim rose from his seat, tucking the notebook in his back pocket. “I think we're done here.”

“I do, too,” said Oswald, emboldened by Edward's brilliant gambit, advancing on him. “You will drop this line of inquiry forthwith, and you will leave my dearest Ed in peace. Furthermore, until such time as this office is otherwise occupied, you _will_ pledge absolute allegiance to city hall.”

“I'm sorry I disturbed your Sunday at home,” Jim sighed, heading for the door. “This was a waste of my time as much as it was a waste of yours.”

“Not so fast,” Oswald said, waylaying Jim with a glare. “You haven't agreed to my terms.”

Jim shrugged, turning back to face them. “You're shit witnesses,” he said. “You haven't given me anything I can use.”

Edward stepped past Oswald, approaching Jim until they stood nearly nose to nose.

“I passed Barnes on my way to the men's room at shortly after ten o'clock p.m. He was leaving as I was going in,” he said in the same unsettling tone as before. “He looked evasive and distracted. He did not meet my eyes. I think you already know what I saw next.”

Jim appeared to turn pale, but he stood his ground. “You could be lying,” he said. “Details of the scene were leaked this morning in the _Gazette_.”

“Number one, our paper is still outside because I haven't asked Olga to bring it in,” said Edward. “Number two, when I was with the good old _team_ , there was always something we'd hold back, something we'd fail to report on purpose. An ace in the hole, if you will. If I had to guess which detail you left out—the brick wall was obvious, visible to all, so that leaves the broken stall door and the blood on the sink. I'm going to guess it was the sink. I'm going to guess that Lucius Fox found tissue samples from both men on the granite. I'll even go so far as to guess that it would have been too late for Symon even if he _had_ survived, because his b—”

_Oh no_ , Oswald thought frantically, realizing that Edward was about to enter their realm of speculation about Tetch's virus, about Barnes being infected, about him passing it—

“His brain would've been damaged from that kind of impact, no question!” Oswald blurted, feigning the kind of impassioned, helpful outburst that Jim had come to expect of him. He made his way to Edward, taking him gently by the shoulders. “As you can see, Detective, what my dearest Ed has seen in the past twenty-four hours has upset him _very_ much. I believe you should now have enough to place Barnes at the scene.”

Jim just stared at them both, eyes desolate with defeat. “Is that what you were about to say, Ed? Brain damage?”

Edward swallowed shakily, clutching at Oswald's hands on his shoulders, playing his part. “Yes,” he lied, sounding strained, but genuine. “I've seen it any number of times on the M.E.'s table.”

Jim nodded, sighing heavily, and Oswald saw the strain in him reluctantly bend and break. “The thing we didn't report is that Dr. Symon lived for a few more seconds after I got to him. He gave me a name.”

Edward's jaw dropped slightly as Oswald squeezed his shoulders, begging him not to speak. “And?”

“And the name he gave me was Barnes,” replied Jim, resuming his journey toward the door. “Congrats, you win this one. Both of you.”

Oswald shuffled ahead of him, reaching the front door just in time to open it. “Old friend,” he said, patting Jim's arm as he crossed the threshold, “allow me to thank you on behalf of Gotham for your devoted service during this difficult time. I will _personally_ see to it that you’re commended.”

“Whatever you say,” Jim sighed, crossing the driveway to his car. “Till next time, Penguin. Ed.”

Oswald stood next to Edward in the doorway for a time, both of them watching as Jim drove away.

“Checkmate indeed, my love,” he breathed in relief. “That answers your question about those moving pieces.”

“If you hadn't kept _me_ in check,” Edward sighed, slipping an arm around Oswald, “who knows where we'd be.”


	13. Fuse

Edward yawned and plucked at the pillowcase, pleased even in his semi-conscious state that Oswald had standards when it came to bed linens. Synthetic fabrics had always been out of the question ( _too scratchy_ ), and Edward had always made a point of budgeting such that he could afford cotton sheets at four-hundred-count minimum. Oswald's felt like at _least_ six.

“I know you're awake,” Oswald murmured, his fingers stroking through Edward's hair from an angle that suggested he was both something of a distance away and sitting propped up. “I let you sleep a little longer while Olga got breakfast ready. She brought it up a few moments ago,” he added, rattling what sounded like a teacup and saucer for emphasis. “It's almost seven thirty, Ed. Work day.”

Groaning, Edward reluctantly sat up, scooting so he could curl as close against Oswald's side as the elaborate tray apparatus over Oswald's lap would permit. Not a single one of the edible items, however bafflingly many there were on immediate offer, smelled quite as tempting as whatever Oswald was drinking. It reminded Edward vividly of the hushed, tense moments they'd shared by firelight, of how Oswald's clever, heated mouth had brought him instantly undone. He thought about sipping tea and going down on Oswald.

“Give me that,” he said, reaching for the cup and saucer Oswald held. He wondered if Oswald would be game.

“Darling, of _course_ ,” Oswald said, handing them over, raising his newspaper. “Want the latest press?”

“Yes?” Edward ventured, bringing the steaming cup to his lips. Ginger and rooibos, nostalgia with a twist.

“Barnes is in Arkham,” Oswald said, adjusting the lapel of Edward's dressing gown before resuming the jam-smeared croissant he'd been eating before he roused Edward. “Jim must have gone after him almost immediately after he left us yesterday. There was a showdown. The man went berserk.” He swallowed the bite he'd been talking around and kissed Edward's cheek. “Care to guess why?”

“My prediction is that Tetch will be very happy to see him,” said Edward, elated to know his assumptions had been accurate. “Just imagine. That virus is all that's left of his sister.”

“It makes me ill to think that you and I were _this close_ to drinking it the other night,” replied Oswald, disgustedly, setting his pastry aside so that he could prepare another for Edward.

“It begs the question of whether anyone at the Founders' Dinner touched their lips to that wine before Harvey burst in,” said Edward, sucking down the dregs of his cup. “Of who else might be infected.”

“Sometimes I could swear you miss your old job,” Oswald sighed, handing him the butter-heavy, jam-light croissant. “This is prickly pear, by the way. _Very_ exotic. You'll like the tartness. While I'm on a renovations kick, should I retrofit the study into a lab and get you a microscope?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Edward said, ravenous, abandoning thoughts of seduction as he stuffed his mouth. “Would you?”

“If it means you'll keep looking at me like that, I'll get you anything you ask for,” Oswald promised.

They ate and drank in contented silence for a while. Oswald even let Edward read over his shoulder without subconsciously bristling; they were demolishing each other's remaining barriers with remarkable efficiency. Edward didn't even mind that Oswald had sprung something unusual on him. The jam was a paler, brighter, more pleasing shade than their usual strawberry. He'd get used to the taste.

“There's another problem,” Oswald said, pitching the paper over the side of the bed in a fit of the nervousness Edward had only _just_ realized he'd been concealing. “Someone tried to blow up Falcone last night as he was coming out of a private dinner with his son and Dr. Thompkins. This coupled with the docks incident and Barnes getting locked up means more work for me. I've already instructed Gabe to summon representatives from the five families for a meeting here at nine.”

“You'll be late coming to the office?” Edward guessed. “You want me to go ahead without you?”

Oswald nodded, resuming his teacup with unsteady hands. “On top of all the rest, this virus situation makes me nervous,” he confessed. “I'm not foolish enough to think Tetch was unsuccessful in circulating it even though brave Captain Bullock got to us all in the nick of time.”

“They gave command to GCPD’s resident blowhard?” Edward muttered, shoving the last of the croissant in his mouth. “Discouraging. With that much bumbling involved, your workload _will_ double.”

“I'll raise protection fees by fifty percent, it's fine,” Oswald told Edward, the pressure of his hand reassuring against Edward's knee. “But no, I don't want you to head to the office right away. I've texted Searle to let her know we'll both be late. I have an errand in mind, and it's one that you may _absolutely_ refuse if you don't feel comfortable going where it would take you.”

Edward shifted against Oswald's side, leaning until he could rest his head on Oswald's shoulder. “I can tell that it's extremely important,” he said. “This do-anything vow goes both ways, remember?”

“On the nightstand, you will find my favorite pistol and an envelope containing two thousand dollars in cash,” Oswald explained, running his fingers through Edward's hair. “I need you to go to Arkham. Buy your way into a visit with Tetch; Quimby is pathetically easy. See what rhymes you can get out of our poor, mad friend. You have the only mind in Gotham fit to decipher his confession.”

“That's assuming I can _get_ a confession,” Edward muttered, “but I'm willing to give it a try.”

Oswald tipped Edward's chin up for a lingering kiss. “I will make it up to you and _then_ some.”

“I'll meet you at the office when I'm finished,” Edward said. “I should get a head-start, shouldn't I?”

Showering and dressing alone felt strange after not quite a week of sharing both activities with Oswald around the clock, but it reminded him that the process was much faster than it had become. He rushed back to Oswald's room, dressed save for the one finishing touch he required.

Oswald, busy with his cufflinks, watched Edward place the tie pin with exacting, reverential care.

“You might as well keep it,” he said, flushing with pride. “It suits you better than it ever did me.”

Edward grinned at his reflection, tracing the pearl-dotted gold question-mark. “It feels like fate.”

“We might consider switching the stone,” Oswald said. “If you want. Pearl isn't necessarily your—”

“On the contrary, it's befitting my station,” Edward reminded him, kissing Oswald's cheek as he turned to go. “They'll mistake the setting in my crown for something much softer than what I've got up my sleeve.”

“Please save the gemstone-hardness lecture for later,” Oswald sighed, pressing the money and the gun to Edward's chest. “Edward, be careful. Insist that they bring Tetch out in full restraints.”

Outside in the bracing chill, Caroline didn't seem fazed by Edward's statement of their destination. She teasingly offered him a drag on her cigarette before they got in the limousine, but Edward declined. The inner pockets of his coat felt heavy, but it was a sense of thrill rather than dread.

 _How good of you to remember that we like this_ , came the days-dormant drawl at the back of Edward's mind, as hopelessly belligerent as ever. _And knowing dear, darling Oswald likes it just as much..._

“He killed for me,” Edward said under his breath. “I'd do the same and not lose a wink of sleep.”

“What is it you're saying back there?” Caroline asked, opening the divider with a deft switch-flick as she drove. “I can't hear a single word, and I know how much you like to stump me.”

“Talking to myself,” Edward said, working his hands into his gloves one after the other. “Never mind.”

Warden Quimby was waiting for him at Arkham's front gate, shocked nonetheless to set eyes on him.

“You're looking well these days, Edward,” said Quimby, letting Edward in. “Better than well, even.”

“Our magnanimous mayor takes care of me, and I take care of him,” said Edward, curtly, drawing the well-wrapped cash out of his coat as Quimby locked the gate. “Did his advance notice tell you why I'm here?”

“No,” said Quimby, setting a cautious hand on the bribe as they began to walk. “Just to expect you.”

“I need some time alone with one of your newest guests,” Edward said. “Jervis Tetch. I want him restrained, hands and feet, and a guard outside the door. I'm armed, but you won't search me.”

Quimby tore the cash out of Edward's hand, tucking it into his coat pocket. “Anything for city hall.”

Past security, completely unscathed, Edward waited alone for almost twenty minutes at the same table where once he'd been brought for his monthly visits with Oswald. He traced the scratches in its worn surface, each one of them intact in his memory.

He jumped when the door opened, head flying up.

The massive, unfamiliar guard pushed Tetch ahead of him until he could help the handcuffed, shuffling wretch into the chair across from Edward. Tetch would've looked ghostly and sallow if not for the eerie, vicious spark in his dark, dark eyes. He nodded to Edward as the guard went out.

“Dearest Eddie,” Tetch said, beguilingly polite. “The mayor's surly sweetheart, could it _be_?”

“Lovely night we had last week notwithstanding,” said Edward, sarcastically, elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled in front of him, “this isn't a social call, Mr. Tetch. Mayor Cobblepot is concerned that we may be on the brink of a public health crisis. Who else did you infect?”

“ _Almost_ you and your paramour, I see,” Tetch taunted, breaking into disdainful sing-song, all pretense gone, “but if I were you, I wouldn't worry about little old me.” He tilted his head, as if appraising Edward's bold statement.

“It's not you we're worried about,” Edward said. “It's the pathogen you so recklessly turned loose.”

“Some unfortunates in here told me _all_ about you,” confided Tetch, almost threateningly. “They say you're a whiz at puzzles and like riddles, too.”

“Under most circumstances, given my personal interests, I wouldn’t mind the rhyming,” Edward sighed, drawing the gun out of his coat, “but I haven’t got all day. This will get tiresome quickly unless you cooperate, so just...play along, okay? Your sister. Who else might have been exposed?”

“Start with the men in the morgue and work your way up from there,” Tetch sneered, winking. “Say, _Riddle-man_ —before you get caught, why don’t you think up a doozy, show me what you’ve got?”

“Why does everyone call me that,” Edward muttered under his breath. “It’s condescending.”

Tetch reached across the table and patted Edward's left hand, which lay tense and still even as his right held the loaded gun. “You should hear the things they say about _me_ ,” he lamented. “Come now. _Courage_. Show me what you’re made of, and we’ll do something about that moniker.”

Edward withdrew his hand as if burned, swallowing hard, holding the gun out further so that it nearly touched Tetch’s chest. “What reveals the thing it conceals the longer you wield it?”

Tetch sat back in his chair, unconcerned about the fact that Edward had pointedly cocked the pistol.

“Any number of abstract concepts and principles rise to the occasion, but I sense that you’re implying my _deception_ is at issue,” replied Tetch, all Cheshire-cat grin. “Whatever shall we call you?”

“You may address me as Mr. Nygma,” said Edward, rising stiffly, replacing the gun in his coat. “But I hope there won’t be occasion for that again, so you can forget I even mentioned it.”

Tetch got up, shuffling his way around the table. Edward was more grateful of the restraints than ever.

“Tick-tock,” he said, poking Edward in the chest just below his tie pin. “Riddler’s racing the clock.”

“I’m leaving now,” Edward told him, turning on his heel. “ _Guard_ , would you detain this—”

“Try it on for size,” Tetch suggested whimsically as the uniformed ape entered the room, brushed past Edward, and seized him by the shoulders. “Failing that, you can always take your husband’s name.”

“One thing for sure,” said Edward, as the guard hauled Tetch away, “if there’s ever a wedding, you won’t be getting an invite. Not after that appalling display of manners at the Founders’ Dinner.”

The echo of Tetch’s unhinged laughter haunted him all the way back to Arkham’s gates. _Friendly faces in treacherous places do not healthful bedfellows make_ , he'd howled, challenging Edward to solve it.

 _Riddler_. The sheer nerve. It wasn’t as if Edward hadn’t considered that option, as obvious as it was, not when he knew that he needed an avatar in Gotham’s underworld laden with as much meaning as _Penguin_.

“I do hope you enjoyed your alumni visit to our fair institution,” said Quimby, ushering Edward out.

“Less than you would imagine,” Edward retorted, relieved to see Caroline waiting where he’d left her.

On arrival at city hall, Edward avoided Searle’s attempt to catch his eye on the way through the lobby, heading straight for Oswald’s office. Between a morning that hadn’t included enough intimacy for his taste and the final rhyme Tetch had set before him, he needed to see Oswald immediately.

Oswald rose from his desk the instant Edward entered, abandoning the form he’d been about to sign.

“You look a fright,” he said, bypassing his cane where it was propped against the corner of the desk in order to reach Edward around the far side of it. “Come here,” he said, arms spread. “I shouldn’t have—”

“I think of the things they did to you while you were in there,” Edward seethed, falling into Oswald’s offered embrace, clinging to him, “the things they did to _us_ , and I want…”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d come home a few bullets short,” Oswald murmured. “Did you?”

Edward shook his head, but imagining he’d left Quimby bleeding out at the gate _was_ satisfying.

“Sometimes I resent the disingenuousness of those documents, their expediency notwithstanding.”

“Well, I’m not about to argue with _that_. I may have a certificate, Ed, but I do love you madly.”

Edward shivered, backing Oswald up against the desk. “It’s your lunch break. We could find a hotel.”

“Or you could just go lock the door and draw the blind,” Oswald suggested, hopping up on the edge, his cane clattering to the floor. “I’ve been waiting my whole _life_ for an opportunity like this.”

“I haven’t,” Edward admitted, moving away from him, almost stumbling in his haste to secure the office. “Then again, that sentiment was formed largely on the basis of my last place of employ. Any such activities in that particular setting would have been…decidedly unhygienic.”

Oswald swung his heels, lower lip caught alluringly between his teeth as Edward rushed back to him.

“We can’t make _too_ much of a mess,” he said, straightening Edward’s tie, his expression turning comically chaste. “I’ll leave the interpretation to your utterly devious mind.”

Edward nodded, hands already busy at the fastenings of Oswald’s trousers.

“Not that it’s complicated,” he said, fingers finding eager, heated flesh. He cupped Oswald inside his boxers, stroking Oswald’s back as Oswald’s head came to rest against his shoulder. “I could tease you like this for an hour.”

“I won’t _last_ an hour if you keep doing this,” murmured Oswald, breathily, embarrassed.

“Me neither,” Edward admitted, pressing a kiss against Oswald’s forehead. “I’ll go on my knees.”

“Oh, _Ed_ ,” Oswald moaned, sending a shiver down Edward’s spine as Edward situated himself between Oswald’s thighs and exposed his erection to the slight chill of the room. “You look…”

Edward didn’t give him the chance to finish his sentence, taking Oswald in his mouth with half-lidded eyes. He could tell by the way Oswald’s eyes, fixed intensely on his own until the moment they slid shut, that there wasn’t any glare off his lenses at this angle. Oswald could _see_ him.

Whimpering, Oswald came in seconds. Edward, warm with pride, focused on the taste of him; Oswald didn’t seem in the least offended when Edward spat in the glass tumbler on his desk.

When it was Edward’s turn—seated on the opposite side so that Oswald, still flushed and panting, could settle comfortably in his chair—Oswald’s eyes never _once_ left his.

“Oswald, I—think I _might_ have—” Edward bit down on the side of his wrist to keep from shouting, his other hand shaking where it stroked Oswald’s jaw as Oswald swallowed around him a second time “—accidentally imagined what it…would be like…” His breath left him in an overwhelmed rush as Oswald pulled off him, thrillingly seductive till the finish, and swiped a trace of come from his lower lip with the tip of his thumb. “One band to find it, another to bind it. What am I?”

Oswald took Edward’s face in his hands, drawing him down for a leisurely, _electrifying_ kiss.

“Stop reading my mind,” he said, affectionately coy. “In all seriousness, we’ll get to that once we’ve had time to discuss it. I have the feeling my idea of such an event is more extravagant than yours.”

“I would literally take you upstairs and have it done within five minutes,” said Edward, hoarsely. “I’m sure Vee and Caroline would be happy to witness. I’m not letting Zsasz anywhere near it.”

“What a romantic you are,” Oswald sighed, stroking Edward’s cheek. “I thought that was _my_ job.”

Edward rested his forehead against Oswald’s, utterly content as Oswald wrapped both arms around his waist. “That was…no time at all,” he said. “We’ve got at least forty minutes left.”

“There are a few items to discuss, and I’m happy if the rest of the meeting remains informal,” teased Oswald, but his tone turned reluctant and serious. “Barbara interrupted this morning’s business proceedings. She drew a gun on me, demanding to know where Tabitha and Butch have disappeared to. She seems convinced that her lover has taken up with that oaf in a romantic context, heaven knows why. If the others hadn’t been present and heavily armed, she might have done me in.”

“I’ve still turned up no whispers regarding Butch’s whereabouts, but if Tabitha is with him, that could work to my advantage,” said Edward, calculating. “With luck, they’ll make each other careless.”

“Second item,” Oswald sighed, leaning back slightly so he could brush Edward’s hair into some semblance of order. “Did anything useful come of Tetch’s inevitable blather?”

“I haven’t fully parsed it,” Edward sighed. “It might have been nonsense, or there might be something to it. Can I give you a run-down later when there’s no chance of someone banging on your door?”

“We have access to my tailor’s private fitting suite later,” Oswald said, breaking into a tentative smile. “I wanted to surprise you. I’ve made an appointment for six. He’s picked a few suits for you to try.”

“Done,” Edward agreed. “I should…really go to my office and see what’s accrued in my absence.”

Oswald let go of Edward, hands moving to re-tuck Edward’s shirt, fasten his trousers, and button his waistcoat. “You don’t look as disheveled as I _like_ you to look,” he said, “but it’s our secret.”

“You’re kind of a mess,” Edward told Oswald, instantly getting back down on his knees to return the favor. He lingered, tucking Oswald’s mint-and-rose shaded tie into his waistcoat. “I like _that_.”

The remainder of the day passed slowly, although Edward’s trajectory intersected with Oswald’s on several occasions. If Searle’s manner with them was curt during the end-of-day debrief, Edward wasn’t inclined to comment. If she’d been hoping to attain what was Edward’s by right, enjoying her passive-aggressive misery was sufficient. Edward ushered Oswald out with a hand at the small of his back.

“I’ve arranged for Caroline to have some sandwiches waiting in the limousine so we can eat en route,” said Edward, fetching their coats. “From that mom-and-pop deli a few blocks away. Your favorite.”

“I’ve said it before, but you do think of everything,” Oswald marveled. “Shopping on an empty stomach is rarely a good idea, even if you’re not in a market. I prefer to be able to focus.”

“Come on,” Edward said, buttoning his coat, taking Oswald’s arm. “She’s waiting, and she _might_ even have a pack of Dunhills with your name on it. I told her to pick the black one.”

They reached Oswald’s tailor half an hour later with their bellies full, smelling faintly of smoke. The proprietor’s taciturn assistant installed them in the fitting suite, making a point of helping Edward to situate Oswald in the well-worn leather armchair facing the triptych mirror.

“Behind the partition,” the assistant told Edward on his way out. “Ring for me once you’ve talked the pieces over so that I can come back in and do any pinning required for alterations.”

Edward ducked out of sight between the folding screen and the wall, shedding his work suit in a hurry. On the hooks hung no fewer than four different ensembles, each one a shade vivid enough to dazzle, but one of the middle two practically shimmered. He ran his fingers down the sleeve.

“If you don’t get out here and start modeling for me, I’ll be very disappointed,” called Oswald.

“Just a minute,” Edward replied, tearing all three pieces off the hanger, grateful that the silver, gold, and charcoal checked tie he’d chosen that morning wouldn’t clash terribly with any of his options.

“I can come back and help if you like,” Oswald offered, the chair squeaking as if he meant to get up.

“No, no,” said Edward, shrugging into the jacket, avoiding initial eye contact with his reflection as he emerged before Oswald and the imposing trio of mirrors. “How do I look?”

Oswald’s eyes were somewhat wider than Edward would have liked, and not exactly in the kind of way that suggested it would take all of his willpower not to strip Edward on the spot, either.

“It’s…not subtle,” he finally said, licking his lips as if some part of his mind had warmed to the shade.

“Like your wardrobe _is_?” Edward shot back. “You said you wanted to see me in more flash.”

“There’s flash, and there’s looking like you fell straight out of Emerald City,” said Oswald, flippantly.

“Wizard of _Oz_ ,” Edward smirked, tapping his chin, turning toward the mirror. “If the slipper fits.”

“I want you to feel confident even if it’s not a look I’d choose myself,” Oswald conceded. “Do you?”

Edward studied himself with giddy satisfaction before spinning on his heel. He strode over to where Oswald sat, bracing his palms on the arms of the chair, leaning down till his lips brushed Oswald’s ear.

“ _Dangerously_ so,” he whispered as seductively as he could manage, shifting his palms to rub from Oswald’s elbows up to his shoulders. “Would you like a private demonstration later?”

“I can’t say I’d mind that in the least,” said Oswald, evenly, a blatant challenge. “What’s the catch?”

“You’re buying me this goddamn suit,” Edward replied. “And the other three, too. _And_ a hat.”

“The course of true love never did run smooth,” Oswald said, feigning put-upon displeasure. “Done.”

Edward stayed where he was even though his arms had begun to tire, charmed by the way Oswald had fallen into his old habit of straightening Edward’s collar and fussing with his tie pin. Abruptly, he recalled the jarring stab of Tetch’s index fingers in that same spot.

“ _Start with the men in the morgue and work your way up from there_ ,” Edward blurted, regretting Oswald’s instant, concerned perplexity. “That was Tetch’s first response to my inquiry.”

Oswald relaxed, tugging at Edward’s elbows until he got the idea that Oswald wanted to manhandle him into another position. He wasn’t even bothered that it meant being tugged sideways into Oswald’s lap. He floundered a moment before swinging his legs over the arm of the chair.

“That indicates to me that it might be someone—or some _ones_ —significantly up the food chain within Gotham’s medical community,” Edward continued. “Bad news for Gotham General.”

“Did he say anything else useful, or did he just give you the run-around after that?” Oswald asked.

“ _Friendly faces in treacherous places do not healthful bedfellows make_ ,” Edward recited hesitantly. “Whether it was another clue regarding infected individuals or a jab at us, I couldn’t…”

“Friendly faces in treacherous places,” Oswald muttered, caressing Edward’s knee. “Like Jim Gordon in GCPD, or hapless medical examiners marrying into the mob.”

Edward glanced up, endearingly startled. “That attack wasn't intended for Carmine Falcone,” he said, sudden realization dawning. “Someone besides Tetch—besides _us_ —knows the condition of the groom-to-be.”


	14. Fire

Oswald took careful note of Caroline's expression as he and Edward emerged from the tailor's front door two hours later with a number of parcels in tow. Edward had insisted on wearing the most flamboyant of the suits home; given that it hadn't needed any alterations, Oswald supposed Edward's enthusiasm was understandable. Migraine-inducing color aside, it flattered Edward's lithe, angular figure to perfection.

The contradiction in visual terms was _maddeningly_ attractive.

Caroline whistled, pitching what was left of her Pall Mall. “Goddamn, Mr. N,” she said, taking the stack of parcels off his hands, heading around to the trunk. “You guys run into Elton John in there?”

Oswald watched in mild disbelief as Edward actually struck something resembling a pose for her.

“Goodbye, yellow brick road,” he gushed, too gleeful to be annoyed with her. “How do I look?”

“Like you've just taken the stage at a debutante ball,” Oswald retorted, yanking the back door open, holding it for him. “Get in before Ms. Fowler decides she's too embarrassed to be seen with us.”

“ _Somebody_ doesn't want a private demonstration,” Edward shot back, but he was still grinning guilelessly away. He winked at Oswald as he got in the car, offering a come-hither gesture once he'd taken his seat. “Oswald, calm down,” he said. “You know I wouldn't—”

“You're a menace when I indulge you,” Oswald said, grateful that Caroline knew to slam the door behind him once he'd accepted Edward's extended hands and been hauled inside. “And I enjoy every minute of it,” he added, latching onto Edward's mouth the second he leaned in.

They'd never had opportunity to leave the back seat ill-used, but Oswald was determined to give it his best shot up to a point. He didn't want to ruin Edward's new suit any more than Edward did.

“This was a terrible idea,” Edward panted as they disentangled themselves. The limousine had started up their driveway, and he knew as well as Oswald that Olga would have a full tea service ready.

“So why don't _you_ calm down,” Oswald said, straightening Edward's tie, “and think of later.”

“Like that's going to help,” replied Edward, pointedly, sliding his hand further up Oswald's thigh.

Oswald smacked it away lightly as the limousine came to a stop. “Just because we're in our honeymoon phase doesn't mean we can't be grown-ups about this when push comes to shove.”

“If I didn't know any better, I'd accuse you of phrasing it like that on purpose,” said Edward, with subdued petulance. “You got to fulfill your office fantasy today. Why can't I have one of mine?”

“I'd prefer we didn't try till we're on a substantial ride,” Oswald replied. “Or when no driver's here.”

“Perhaps you're right,” Edward said as the door opened and startled them both. “I got carried away.”

“You can get as carried away as you want as long as you're decent when I let you out,” Caroline said.

“Apologies,” Oswald told her as Edward exited the car first. “It turns out I can't take him anywhere.”

“You'd think he _meant_ it,” said Edward, blithely, helping Oswald step into the raw evening.

Inside, they found a fire crackling in the grate and Olga arranging their tea service on the coffee table.

“Is not proper dinner, sandwiches,” she scolded, taking their coats as they entered the room. “For shame.”

“Thank you _ever_ so much for having the tea ready,” Oswald said, noticing how the lick of flames caught and splintered sickly green at the knuckle of her left index finger. “New ring, Olga?”

Edward stared at it, transfixed, even as Olga was gaping at _him_ for ironically similar reasons.

“Yes, there's an awful lot of green,” sighed Oswald, taking a seat on the sofa. “Once this impromptu fit of mutual admiration has concluded, can we please get on with the story of _where_ —”

“ _Da_ , about this,” said Olga, no-nonsense, recovering from her shock at Edward's appearance. She twisted the ring off her finger and handed it to Oswald, lips pursing as they tended to do when she was about to say something critical. “That crazy blonde from the club, she come here again today after you and your guests leave,” she continued in distaste. “She wave pretty ring in my face and ask questions, so I play along. I give her nothing she does not already know, but watch back.”

Oswald tasted bile as his lungs constricted in fury. Barbara. After all he'd _done_ for her.

“Let me guess,” Edward said, joining Oswald on the sofa, protective. “Prying into our relationship?”

“You and ring are not the only green things,” replied Olga, dourly. “She is jealous like handsome cop.”

“Thank you for alerting us to this,” Edward said to Olga, busying himself with preparing both cups.

Taking a cue from Edward's level-headedness, Oswald got his temper under control. He offered the ring back to Olga, marveling at its weight.

“Wear it or pawn it,” he said. “You deserve the prize.”

Olga waved at it in disgust. “Keep for paperweight,” she scoffed. “Buy me new smart-phone instead.”

Oswald smiled benevolently, invigorated by both her loyalty and her fire. “I'll do just that,” he said.

As Olga muttered to herself in Russian and left them for the night, Edward plucked the ring from Oswald's palm with curious fingertips. He whistled—peculiar, bird-like—at the heft of it.

“You won't approve,” he said jokingly, sliding the ring onto his left pinkie finger, curling his newly-encumbered hand against his cheek, “but it's almost as if Barbara knew I'd need accessories.”

Momentarily, Oswald couldn't speak for the figure Edward cut while adorned by peridot and diamond.

“You're too quick a study by half,” he said, snatching Edward's hand away from his face and drawing it up to his lips. “We'll have to tell Gabe to redouble his efforts. The sooner we find Butch and Tabitha, the better. Barbara's going out of her mind with envy. It's bad for business.”

“I have Vee working on it, too,” Edward said, blatantly distracted as Oswald kissed the ring. “As for Zsasz, I meant to ask you about that. Is he absent without leave, or fulfilling another contract?”

“I thought it might be prudent to let him take an offer from the Falcone contingent,” Oswald said, placing Edward's hand between them on the sofa, reaching to finish what Edward had started.

“You're hoping he'll gather some information,” Edward guessed. “Are we paying him enough?”

“Falcone's offer and a half,” said Oswald, primly, sipping his tea only once Edward had sampled his.

“Convincing,” replied Edward, approvingly, fascinated by how the ring affected his hand's movement.

“I was thinking we might work from home tomorrow until a few hours before that ceremony at the library,” Oswald suggested. “We can go through your imposing folders during breakfast.”

Edward raised the teacup to his lips again, teeth catching on the delicate rim. “I'd like that,” he said.

The next morning, Oswald woke several minutes before their alarm was set to go off. He rolled onto his side at the sensation of Edward's fingertips brushing his arm beneath the covers, reaching for Edward before he could even think to make sure that he was awake.

Edward blinked in the soft grey dawn, catching Oswald's hand against his cheek.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said, trying the words as if uncertain, voice thick with sleep.

“I bet you say that to all the boys you end up in bed with,” said Oswald, cracking a smile so fond he couldn't contain it.

“Just to you,” Edward said, scooting closer, turning his face beneath Oswald's hand to kiss his palm. “Remember that.”

Oswald ran the tip of his thumb in pensive circles over the now-empty spot on Edward's left pinkie, thinking of the glittering ring where they'd abandoned it on the nightstand.

“You're something of a heartbreaker yourself,” he sighed. “I don't think you knew it before, but you're learning fast.”

Edward scooted closer still so he didn't have to squint, letting go of Oswald's hand and draping his arm over Oswald's shoulder. His palm came to rest firmly between Oswald's shoulder blades.

“I'm learning what you like,” he corrected, bumping his nose against Oswald's with a slight laugh. “And it's gratifying.”

“I don't have to explain to you that you're swish as _anything_ when you're comfortable in your own skin, do I?” Oswald asked, repeating the nose-bump, using it to segue into a quick kiss. “Because that would be awkward.”

“We share a flair for the dramatic,” said Edward, lazily returning the peck. “I noticed that when we first met. When you were staying with me, I mean. That time at the precinct—”

“Are we ever going to talk about that?” Oswald asked, sliding his arm around Edward's waist, tipping his chin down so their foreheads touched. Lying like this—facing each other, touching and tangled by degrees—was the kind of accidental perfection Oswald had longed for. “You recognized me. You pursued me through a crowded police station. Why?”

Edward swallowed, pressing his lips to Oswald's cheek in a manner that wasn't quite a kiss. 

“I started reading about you in the papers when I heard your name being muttered around the station in connection to Jim Gordon. I wanted to know who you were, what you'd done to merit death at the hands of someone I admired at the time because he'd always been kinder to me than the others. I couldn't find much, just that you had ties to Fish Mooney's club. Everything changed the day you walked through the front doors. You would've sworn they'd all seen a ghost. I had a face to put to the name, finally. You were...interesting.”

“Interesting enough to spy on every time I got manhandled into that holding cell, or slung unconscious across somebody's desk in the months to come?” Oswald asked, unable to keep from pulling Edward flush against him, hugging him tight. “How I _wish_ I'd opened my eyes.”

“I used to sneak into Records all the time when Kristen wasn't there,” Edward continued, breathy at the close contact. “Even after hours. I stole her keys once and made a copy. I'd check your file for additions on a regular basis. By the time I approached you that first time, I knew...a lot.”

“Ed, can we just take a moment to acknowledge that you were using your attraction to Miss Kringle to distract yourself from your simultaneous attraction to me?” Oswald asked, resisting the urge to whistle in dismay. “I may not be a psychologist, but that's some textbook repression, and I should know. I just got that nonsense out of my system a lot earlier than you did.”

“Now that you mention it,” said Edward, analytically, after several seconds of silence in which he made those subtle, abortive attempts at speech that indicated he was struggling, “I never really...looked at women, or at at anybody, till you and Kristen came along. And I only..." He made a frustrated sound, taking refuge in the crook of Oswald's neck. “Kristen's face is a pretty one, objectively speaking, and it came to represent something I consistently couldn't attain. Until I was...almost successful, at which point I made sure nobody else could have it.” He drew another deliberate breath, tensing in Oswald's arms, so Oswald rubbed his back. “I did not...want to know her; I wanted to impose my fixations and preconceptions, mold her into an idea to inhabit her image. _Your_ face, by contrast, is...a devastating one, and that's not objectively speaking. That's with the force of knowledge behind my interpretation of the visual. I took the time to get to know you before I approached you, whereas I cannot say the same of how I handled my chosen distraction.”

“Thank you,” said Oswald, quietly, and didn't say anything else for the several minutes in which the slow, controlled repetition of his touch finally brought Edward shivering back to himself. “Thank you for articulating...” He shook his head, abruptly at a loss. “Whatever that was, Ed.”

“You understand not only what I am,” Edward said shakily, “but what I may become. From a distance, I watched you become what you are. And I...” He lifted his head, kissing Oswald deeply. “I understand now that Oswald Cobblepot and Penguin aren't sides to a coin. They're different names for the same person, interchangeable tokens of power depending on context. There's city hall, and there's the shadowed heart of Gotham. I want to know who I am when I stand beside you in the dark.”

“You're exceedingly verdant, I can tell you that much,” said Oswald, grinning against Edward's mouth. “And you wear your riddles—” he traced a question-mark over Edward's breastbone, just where his tie pin tended to rest “—as a badge of honor.”

“Where most people scoff and call me Riddle-man, Tetch called me Riddl _er_ ,” said Edward, tentatively. “That had crossed my mind, of course. It's grammatically and thematically appropriate.” He worked his jaw again. “Penguin and Riddler. We're not _obviously_ terrifying, are we?”

“I've had time to work on the terror part,” Oswald reminded him, “and build it by association. I took a name that was first hurled at me in disdain and decided to _own_ it. Riddler has a better ring to it than Riddle-man." He kissed Edward again, gentler this time. “Try it. And, on that note, we need to get up, because those initiatives of ours aren't going to sign themselves.”

“I want you,” Edward blurted, pliant in Oswald's embrace. The fact he'd been hard against Oswald's belly for a while hadn't escaped Oswald's notice. “Oswald, make me—”

“Making you come is not difficult under the circumstances,” said Oswald, pinning Edward on his back, feeling himself react instantly to the change in position, “and I'm _happy_ to.”

They were twenty minutes late to breakfast, which rendered Olga cross enough to speak only Russian. 

Oswald doctored their lukewarm coffee with sugar and cream. One bite of the egg-white scramble told him the temperature was a lost cause, but he was so proud of Olga's fortitude in the face of Barbara's meddling that he couldn't bring himself to order her to reheat them.

“Red peppers, basil, white cheddar, no onions,” said Edward, settling in his chair with a lapful of folders. “I'm nominating Olga for Employee of the Year even though she doesn't work downtown.”

“Have we made any headway with the waterfront negotiations?” Oswald asked, taking a few dissatisfied bites of egg while Edward sipped his coffee and produced the pertinent form.

“I've spoken with the union leader,” Edward confirmed, handing the sheet and a hastily-produced pen across their breakfast to Oswald. “He agreed to our offer, so those photos can go back in the vault.”

“They _were_ quite saucy, weren't they?” Oswald remarked, spearing a piece of cantaloupe.

Edward trapped a startled giggle behind his pursed lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling warmly.

Oswald laughed with him, and then, chagrined, recalled the task at hand. “And how about the—”

“Your approval for the new casino should come through tomorrow,” said Edward, handing him an entire folder, taking the opportunity to start in on his eggs. “Demolition can begin right away.”

“Ed, I cannot _tell_ you how good it is to see you thriving,” Oswald told him, struck by how profoundly Edward had blossomed since his departure from Arkham. “I was so afraid—”

“Just one last signature,” Edward promised, passing him the relevant form. “You shouldn't be.”

“Afraid?” Oswald asked, scrawling his signature in both designated slots. “I'm glad to hear it.”

“I'm still in transition, but...” Edward accepted the finished stack of papers with both hands, seeing to it that his fingers brushed Oswald's. “Your support—at _all_ levels, Oswald—means everything.”

“Of course,” Oswald insisted, overcome, setting papers aside. “The number of times I've said...”

“I know,” Edward replied, his smile radiating satisfaction. “We're redundant in our declarations.”

Oswald burst into delighted laughter. “I can tell it's going to be a productive day,” he said, startled when his phone buzzed in the pocket of his dressing gown. He removed it and scanned the notification's contents. “ _Aha_. Ed, what would you make of another surprise?”

Edward shrugged, preoccupied with finishing what was left of both his eggs and his assorted fruit.

“If I told you to be home for six, do you think Caroline could be persuaded to beat traffic?” Oswald asked. “I'll have to get here well before you arrive, you understand. Some set-up is required.”

“As long as it doesn't involve anything like yesterday morning's errand, count me in,” Edward said.

Two hours later, they arrived at city hall with hair more damp than Oswald would have liked. He parted ways with Edward in the marble alcove near the elevator, stealing a chaste kiss in the echoing silence. Pink-cheeked, Edward turned on his heel and took the stairs.

Searle was waiting in Oswald's office. Her expression was distinctly pinched as Oswald hobbled over to his desk and set down the stack of folders that he and Edward had cleared over breakfast.

“This is everything on which you asked me to follow up,” he told her. “So what's on today's docket?”

Searle unfolded her arms and collected the paperwork, clutching it to her chest. “The regularity with which you and Mr. Nygma arrive late to the office doesn't inspire confidence in the staff, sir.”

“One might also argue that your mode of dress,” said Oswald, primly, indicating her metallic leopard-print skirt and frankly bewildering hairstyle, “doesn't necessarily inspire confidence, either, but I saw through to the capable individual beneath the trappings, isn't that so?”

Bristling for a moment, Searle recovered her composure. “I have regularly been asked by that lunatic to deliver what I am ninety-nine percent certain are _bombs_ ,” she hissed, gesturing in the direction of Edward's office. “I know you're doing some shady business, Mayor _Penguin_ , but how is using city hall as a center of operations for that kind of thing ethical?”

“I'm going to stop you right there,” said Oswald, taking a seat at his desk. “You knew what this job entailed when Edward and I interviewed you, did you not? We made the...requirements quite clear.”

“Somehow I thought the handling of explosives would fall to Mr. Zsasz and company,” she retorted.

“Either you agree to leave now and forget this conversation ever happened,” Oswald said coldly, “or I will expect your resignation on my desk first thing tomorrow. And I _assure_ you I will be prompt.”

Searle glared at him, tightening her arms across the folders. “No more bombs,” she said firmly.

Oswald rolled his eyes, grabbing the nearest pen so he could make a note in his ledger. “No more bombs,” he agreed, dictating each word with pointed exaggeration. “I'll pass it on to Ed.”

“First-name basis,” Searle said, starting for the door. “First Edward, and then _Ed_. It used to be _Mr. Nygma this_ and _Mr. Nygma that_. You guys aren't subtle. You'll pay for it.”

“Our personal life is of no more concern to you than what was in those parcels you used to deliver, but thank you for your input!” Oswald shouted after her, incandescent with anger. He picked up the phone and dialed Edward's office, still fuming by the time it rang through.

“Oswald,” Edward said with perceptible concern. “Is everything all right? Someone just slammed—” 

“The stairwell door, yes, I know,” Oswald sighed. “Searle has proved insubordinate. Fire her at once.”

“Glad to,” Edward said, over the sound of his pen scrawling. “I'd already made a note to suggest it.”

“I'll be waiting for you downstairs at three,” Oswald reminded him. “That library ceremony...thing.”

“If I'm honest, we might as well head home from there together,” Edward suggested. “Will it ruin—”

“Of course not,” Oswald reassured him. “I just would have liked to oversee set-up, but Olga can do it.”

After hanging up and texting Olga with instructions, Oswald found that he couldn't concentrate on the policy and compliance documents that Searle had left for him to review. Whoever had initially written and compiled them had no sense of punctuation, and there were sufficient spelling and typographical errors to pitch Oswald into punctilious fury.

He made a note that Searle's replacement should have at _least_ a modicum of editorial experience.

 _I'll be in the courtyard_ , Oswald texted Edward at two forty-five. _Difficult day. Don't judge._

Edward arrived at precisely three o'clock, by which point Oswald had smoked almost half the pack.

“Your aiding and abetting might prove hazardous to my health in the long run,” Oswald warned him.

“I thought you deserved to cut loose a little,” Edward admitted, taking a seat beside him on the stone bench. He wrestled one of the Dunhills out of the pack in Oswald's grasp and stuck it between his lips.

Oswald lit it for him, sheltering the flame against a gust of wind. “I'm a bad influence,” he lamented.

“ _GCPD_ was a bad influence,” said Edward, taking a lengthy drag. “They smoke like chimneys.”

Somewhat relieved, Oswald nodded, tapping his column of ash onto the concrete. “Ready?” he asked, getting to his feet, offering Edward his arm. “Smoke while we walk? There's a passage leading out back.”

“Where's your cane?” Edward asked, concerned breath leaving him in a smoky huff. “We need to—”

“It's in my office, and I have a spare at home,” Oswald insisted, hustling Edward along at a swift clip.

“I don't have your pills,” Edward fretted, ditching the half-smoked Dunhill. “This will take two hours.”

“There will be a podium, and there will be chairs,” Oswald reminded him. “Everything will be fine.”

In the staff parking lot, Gabriel was waiting for them with Caroline next to the limousine. Edward was quiet for most of the ride, although he did join Oswald in another cigarette before they arrived.

The central foyer amidst the library's stacks was flawlessly arranged and already bustling. Oswald and Edward stood to one side while the director of Gotham Public Libraries made a banal and unconvincing speech about the author whose importance they were there to recognize.

Edward urged Oswald forward to the podium as the director finally deferred to him, hanging back. Oswald glanced at the supercilious man with his dull-looking hardcover as he took hold of the podium's edges, bracing himself for what was likely to be his most lackluster speech.

“Citizens of Gotham,” said Oswald, already bored with the sea of expectant eyes and flurry of frenzied camera-flashes. “When I was a boy, my mother used to bring me to this very hallowed spot. Although English wasn't her first language, she instilled in me a love of this great country's literary traditions that would follow me throughout my life. And so, it is with great pleasure that I present this award to Mr. Kyle Davis for his magnificent book, _Gotham's Sewers: An Oral History_ ,” he concluded, handing the award to Davis at his left. “Looks just fascinating.”

Hit with still more applause and blinding flashes, Oswald glanced impatiently over his shoulder.

Edward broke into a subdued smile, looking for all the world as if he were as bored as Oswald.

Once Oswald had managed to shake the hands most immediately thrust in his path and the crowd had begun to disperse, he made his way back to where Edward stood, accepting Edward's arm for balance.

“I thought you handled it with as much tact as the occasion required,” Edward offered consolingly.

“Do you know,” said Oswald, breaking into incredulous laughter, “that I have absolutely no desire to read this man's book? _None_. I won't even deign to archive a copy at city hall.”

“I could skim it for you sometime if working knowledge of the sewers ever seems advantageous.”

Oswald didn't know which of them moved first. Before he knew it, they were sharing an unreserved embrace in front of God knew how many people. One of the cameras went off right next to them, and a microphone insinuated almost directly between them caused Edward to recoil.

“Any comment on the contributions made by your chief of staff to today's event?” asked Valerie Vale.

Oswald gave her a strained smile, relieved when Edward closed ranks again, stepping close to him.

“Mr. Nygma was instrumental in the _not_ inconsiderable maneuvering that made my attendance today possible,” he explained, clapping Edward on the back as Vale snapped another photograph.

“Mayor Cobblepot is a busy man,” Edward agreed, “and it's my responsibility to head off SNAFUs.”

Vale lowered her camera, smiling at them, seemingly benign. “What do you make of certain staff members' allegations that your relationship outside of work might be affecting productivity?”

“Excuse me,” Oswald said, taking a threatening step closer to her. “ _Certain_ staff members?”

“Yes, sir. Your ex office aide emailed me this afternoon,” Vale explained brightly. “Anita Searle?”

Edward nudged Oswald carefully away from the microphone. “Ms. Searle is obviously projecting,” he explained, the very image of condfidence. “She was let go for refusing to carry out the simplest of tasks.”

“Huh,” said Vale. “All her message said was that she left on the basis of some scheduling disagreements and didn't like Mayor Cobblepot's work ethic. Or your...” She waved her hand at them in obvious amusement. “Your whatever,” she concluded. “Thanks for the quote.”

“Yes,” Edward agreed, watching her hurry away to catch Mr. Davis. “Thank you very much indeed.”

“I've never minded that one as much as the others,” Oswald admitted. “She's curiously impartial.”

“There isn't a soul in this city that doesn't know,” said Edward, evenly. “She won't dare challenge us.”

“Searle might go barking up another tree, though,” said Oswald, in time to see Edward turn pale. He turned in the direction Edward's glance had frozen, catching sight of a blonde in glasses and a tartan skirt. She had a stack of books against her hip, and she looked perturbed.

“There,” said Edward, thinly, his grasp on Oswald's arm tightening. “Can you see her, or am I...”

“I can see a young woman in glasses staring at you,” said Oswald, eyes narrowing as the librarian scowled and stalked off in the opposite direction. “Who could blame her? You look flawless today.”

“That's her,” replied Edward, turning to face Oswald. “The woman from the wine shop. Isabella.”

“Oh,” Oswald breathed, suddenly realizing why Edward had needed confirmation. “ _Damn_ it.”

“At least now I know where she works,” muttered Edward, testily. “Place to avoid if I can help it.”

“I can understand why she upsets you,” Oswald said gently. “The resemblance is rather striking.”

“I don't care if there are champagne and refreshments in the lobby,” Edward said. “I want to leave.”

“Then leave we shall,” Oswald insisted, taking Edward's arm, adamantly leading him toward the exit.

Edward was even quieter on the ride home than he'd been on the ride to the library. Oswald didn't press him for anything further, and he didn't break out the cigarettes again, either. He tucked his chin over the top of Edward's head when Edward leaned against his shoulder, heart racing.

“When I'm beside you in the dark,” Edward whispered, “I can at least see where the hell I'm going.”

“I'm glad,” Oswald said, rocking him. “I'm starting to think tonight might not be the best time...”

“You've scheduled our first sitting with the painter,” Edward said. “I accidentally accessed your personal calendar this afternoon when I meant to access your mayoral one. I should have set different colors.”

“If you're not feeling up to it, I'll send the man home,” Oswald promised, castigating himself. “You've had a more difficult day than I have, and there's absolutely no excuse for my impatience.”

“Nonsense,” Edward said, and Oswald could hear the beginnings of a smile creeping back into his voice. “We look flawless today. Why waste it?”

“You, my dearest Ed,” Oswald sighed, hugging him tighter than ever, “are simply too good to be true.”

Olga and the painter were waiting for them, chattering away in easy, amicable Russian. Oswald had gotten the artist's name from one of the few contacts he'd made at the Founders' Dinner.

“I bring out dinner,” Olga announced, separating herself from the painter. “You have something to eat and _then_ make portrait,” she said sternly, indicating that Oswald and Edward should sit down on either side of where she'd situated the painter at the head of the table.

In dismay, Oswald realized he didn't have the heart to tell her off for evicting him from his usual seat.

By the time they had finished, despite the language barrier and with Olga's translating assistance, he had managed to convey to the painter that he wanted them standing formally—side by side, angled toward each other—with the fireplace visible in the background and subtle intrusion from his mother's tea service where it even now occupied the end of the dining table.

The painter urged Oswald and Edward into position while Olga cleared away the few superfluous dishes remaining and wrangled the tea set into something resembling casual elegance. He conveyed that he didn't need to set precise colors or details, just pose and underpainting.

“I'll be right back,” Edward said, fleeing the room. He returned seconds later with Oswald's cane.

“I suppose it'll lend an air of dignity,” Oswald conceded, secretly relieved to alleviate some pressure on his leg. “Thank you, Ed,” he said, tolerating the painter's nudging and pushing.

“Don't mention it,” Edward said, posture stiffening as the man touched him. “Symbols are important.”

In spite of how swiftly the painter appeared to work, ten minutes into posing, Oswald's leg had begun to throb. He swore, wobbling where he stood, nearly losing his grasp on the cane.

“Here,” Edward said, one arm sliding around Oswald's waist. “Change of plans,” he said, tugging Oswald closer to him, placing Oswald's left hand against his chest. “Keep the cane in your right.”

The painter paused, frowning at them. “Is new way?” he asked uncertainly. “I cannot change after.”

“If it isn't too late, yes,” Edward confirmed, molding his hand possessively against Oswald's hip.

From that point forward, Oswald was infinitely grateful that the man got in a solid thirty minutes' worth of work before Gabriel strode into the room on high alert with Zsasz and Vee on his heels.

“News from the Narrows and beyond,” he said, studying the scene in confusion. “We interrupting?”

“You can tell me what's going on, but don't expect us to break form,” Oswald seethed. “What is it?”

“Calvi set me on Gordon to make sure he wouldn't go to the church and interfere,” said Zsasz, stepping forward, rubbing his jaw, which was bruised and bloodied. “Didn't go so hot. He gave me the slip.”

“And I should care _because_?” Oswald asked, meeting Edward's disdainful sidelong glance.

“Because Gordon made it to the church on time,” said Zsasz. “And even though some of Falcone's guys forcibly removed him, he made his way back to GCPD for back-up and descended on Falcone's private office with the news Calvi faked his results on some blood test. He's infected.”

“Knew it,” hissed Edward, under his breath, the declaration possessed of fierce and distinct elation.

Oswald looked directly at Zsasz, noticing peripherally that Vee hadn't removed her right arm from behind her back the entire time. “Did anything else happen after that? Where are the newlyweds?”

“Gordon caught up with them at Falcone's lake house,” Gabriel said. “Shot Calvi in the nick of time.”

“ _Fascinating_ ,” Edward remarked, meeting Oswald's astonished gaze. “Threat neutralized.”

“As far as we know,” Oswald agreed, turning back to address the hit-men. “Good work, team.”

“Hey, that ain't all,” said Gabriel, his expression turning wolfish. “Aragon here's got a report.”

“Mr. N,” Vee said, imitating Caroline's address. She drew her right arm from behind her back and thunked Butch's custom-cast prosthetic down on the table. “Found the bastard, along with Barbara's lady-love. Should I give this back, or do you want a crack at interrogating them first?”

“Interrogation?” Oswald asked Vee, watching Edward's neutral expression for even the minutest shift. “To me, it's pretty straightforward. We kill Butch and send Tabitha back to The Sirens with a slap on the wrist. By which I mean, she keeps Barbara in check— _or else_.”

“Of course we're going to kill Butch,” said Edward, levelly. “But Vee and I have reason to suspect that he and Ms. Galavan might have had something to do with the docks, and I'd like...confirmation.”

“Oh, if you _must_ ,” said Oswald, experiencing a swell of pride and affection too great for words.

“I wouldn't dream of carrying out the proceedings without you on hand,” Edward replied, the slight twist of his lips all the confirmation that Oswald needed. “Besides, you know all the best venues.”

“Keep them overnight wherever you've got them,” Oswald told Vee. “We'll take care of it tomorrow.”

“On _hand_?” Zsasz echoed, giving Edward an incredulous look. “ _Really_? Who do you think you are, that Jerome guy? I have to give him credit where it's due. He was funny.”

“No,” Edward snapped, drawing Oswald back into position while the painter sighed and resumed his palette. “I'll thank you _never_ to compare me to that two-bit hack. I have standards.”

“Hear, hear,” Oswald said, tracing his fingertip over Edward's tie pin before making sure to place his hand such that it wasn't obscured. “Who am I to begrudge my Riddler the occasional joke?”


	15. Conundrum

Whether it was how jittery the previous evening's revelations from Gabriel, Zsasz, and Vee had left him or the residual energy from standing with Oswald for nearly an hour and a half while the painter had lain groundwork for the portrait, Edward passed a fitful night.

He woke shortly after dawn, muddling through the covers until he found the heat of Oswald's skin.

Next to him, Oswald was motionless: flat on his back with both arms draped above his head, fists curled loosely against the dove-grey pinstripe pillowcase. Oh, to sleep so soundly.

Moving as unobtrusively as he could, Edward pushed down the covers and sat up. He turned sideways, cross-legged, and peeled the covers down until he could drape them carelessly at Oswald's ankles. 

Some part of him was aware that anyone else in his orbit might consider this behavior creepy, but the truth of the matter was that Oswald was constantly in motion. Edward wanted to _look_ at him. He reached over Oswald's head and snagged his glasses off the nightstand, narrowly missing the tip of Oswald's nose on his way back.

“Better,” Edward whispered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, admiring the faint scattering of freckles across Oswald's chest. So faint, each and every constellation, even the ones on Oswald's face. More than anything, Edward wanted a magnifying glass. He set his palm lightly against Oswald's sternum, taking measure of his heartbeat.

“You're so weird,” said Oswald, not even bothering to open his eyes, flopping both arms down so that he could cover Edward's hand with both of his own. “Not that I mind. It's flattering.”

Edward jumped, wondering how he could've missed the fact that Oswald was awake. Incredible, that the very phrase Edward's former GCPD colleagues had once used to insult him could be rendered, on Oswald's tongue, the highest praise. He shifted position without dislodging his hand, an awkward feat given its placement, and nudged Oswald's knees apart so that he could kneel between them.

“Says the one who's weird enough to pretend he's asleep so he can see what I'll do next,” Edward said, offering a lopsided smile as Oswald cracked one eye open. “Hi,” he said. “Mind if I have a look?”

Oswald lifted one of his hands from Edward's, waving it in the direction of his feet. “Knock yourself out,” he yawned, both eyes open now. “The alarm's going to go off any second.”

Edward spared a glance at the clock on the wall. “Not for another ten minutes or so,” he reassured Oswald, tugging his hand from beneath Oswald's remaining one. “I'm curious about all your marks.”

“Between the pathetic excuses for freckles and my variety of scars, that's a lot,” Oswald muttered.

Edward touched the scar he knew best, brushing at it with his thumb. “This one's my favorite.”

“Of all the achievements you have to choose from, why does that one always come out on top?”

“Because you didn't die,” Edward reminded him, kissing the scar. “Remind me who shot you?” 

Oswald shrugged, as if it were of no consequence. “Sniper on the roof during Galavan’s mayoral gala.”

 _So that’s why there’d never been a specific name or a vendetta_ , Edward thought, using his index finger to methodically trace a line from Oswald's shoulder to the faint, three-inch vertical scar beneath Oswald's bellybutton. “Appendix?”

“I think so, yes,” said Oswald, with sleepy disinterest. “Or possibly a hernia. Something that went wrong when I was very young. All I can remember is that my mother was beside herself with worry until they let me out of the hospital. I've never even bothered to look up the records.”

Edward bent down and kissed it. “I'm sure I can get my hands on those if you'd like,” he suggested.

“Some of us aren't completely obsessed with building a medical file on ourselves,” Oswald said, throwing one arm across his eyes. “I'm beginning to wish I was as dead as most of your subjects.”

“No record retrieval, check,” Edward replied, scooting down until he was situated between Oswald's ankles, pushing the covers lower as he went. He set both hands on Oswald's thighs, enjoying the slight twitch of Oswald's hips. “You have one here,” he said, pointing at the slightly-raised patch of tissue dangerously close to the juncture of his right hip. “Bullet wound, older than the one in your shoulder.”

“Oh,” said Oswald, propping himself up on his elbows. “From that time on the roof with Butch and Fish,” he explained. “When I pushed her off. I neglected to tell you it included getting shot.”

“You have more lives than I can count,” said Edward, admiringly, pressing his lips against this mark, too, which was now as much of a self-contained story in Oswald's narrative as the others.

“By my reckoning,” replied Oswald, with obvious distaste, “I'm closer to running out than I'd like.”

“I'm sorry,” said Edward, immediately, sitting back up. “Would you like me to stop? I shouldn't—”

Oswald regarded him intently, expression unreadable until he opened his mouth. “No,” he replied.

Edward nodded, sweeping his gaze from side to side down Oswald's legs. He molded his left hand reverently to Oswald's right knee, gliding it down the warped plane of shin until he could wrap his fingers around Oswald's shapely ankle. “I know who did this to you,” he muttered. “It's a theme.”

Oswald shrugged, lips twisting into a smirk, plopping back down onto the pillow. “ _C'est la vie_.”

“I hope you understand,” said Edward, articulating each word with sudden, scarcely-contained fury, “that I'd like to maim, preferably _kill_ , every individual responsible for giving you these.”

“Even the doctor who saved my life when I was six?” asked Oswald, nowhere near as amused as Edward had expected him to sound. “Butch, you can kill now that we've got him, I promise you that.” His glance wasn't hard enough to read as angry, but it held a measure of warning. “As for Fish, if she turns up again—and, trust me, she _inevitably_ will—you're not to lay a finger on her.”

“You reserve a fondness for her that, I freely admit, I can't begin to understand,” Edward replied.

“If you'd been there the night I led that mob, I think you'd get it,” Oswald said, tugging insistently at Edward's wrists. “Ed, come _here_. I'm getting cold,” he complained. “It's your fault.”

Edward went willingly, tugging the covers up and over them. He kissed Oswald's eyelids as they fluttered shut, one after the other, studying his freckles. Yes, he'd definitely have to track down a magnifying glass.

“You have extremely pale eyes for someone with such dark hair,” he told Oswald. “Not that solid recessives in one trait area negate the possibility of dominant expression in another, but it's...striking, is all. Your mother was blonde, red-gold from the look of photos taken in her youth, but your father's genes in that arena knocked out your chances of having her hair color.”

“So what you're telling me is that you have a thing for redheads?” said Oswald, cattily. “Rude.”

“I don't have a thing for _anything_ unless there's significance to be attached,” said Edward, nuzzling his way to Oswald's earlobe, which earned him a moan. “And you're brimming with it.”

“I never had a thing for dark eyes until I saw you,” said Oswald, distracted as Edward licked the entire shell of his ear. “I never had a thing for any _one_ I can remember having a thing for until they finally got around to opening their mouth and showing me their mettle.”

“How's my mettle?” Edward breathed into Oswald's ear, slipping his hand between Oswald's legs.

“Right now, I'm less interested in that than your mouth,” Oswald replied, pushing up against him.

“Not to ruin the mood,” said Edward, stroking Oswald to full hardness, “but some important figures are going to cross my desk this morning, and I'd better get to city hall in time to analyze them for you.”

“Your pillow talk is so hit-and-miss,” Oswald groused, but he was already squirming and flushed beneath Edward's insistent attention. “We're not leaving this bed till both of us have gotten off.”

“I suppose it doesn't matter if we're late again,” Edward reasoned, teasing Oswald until he felt the wet, telltale smear of excitement across his palm, at which point he shifted his weight on top of Oswald. “Searle's not around to complain, and that annoyingly effective ass, Tarquin, wouldn't know what to do with a sheaf of statistics if they hit him in the head. I only assign what he can handle.”

“Ed,” Oswald sighed, wrapping his arms around Edward's shoulders. “Not to throw off your brilliant head-start on staff evaluations, but would you shut up, kiss me, and get to the part about orgasms?”

“Those aren't required of most staff,” Edward mumbled against Oswald's lips, pleased with his joke.

“You aren't most staff,” Oswald shot back, fingers combing up to twist ferociously in Edward's hair.

Between messily rushed sex, another awkward shower, wardrobe conundrums, and lukewarm breakfast garnished with Olga's chiding, they arrived at city hall twenty minutes late. Oswald was smug.

Edward got them through the revolving door, which he hated with a _passion_ , just in time. They found the junior office assistant he'd ordered to stand in for Searle—Miss Mendel, young and eager in her cheap pumps and modest pearls—waiting for them.

“Mayor, press have assembled in the conference room,” she said. “They’re requesting your presence.” 

“Oh dear,” Edward said under his breath, eyes darting toward the staircase. The report on his desk—

“Press?” Oswald echoed, his voice rising perceptibly in concern as he glanced at Edward. “Why?”

“The latest figures are in,” said Miss Mendel, indicating that Oswald and Edward should follow her.

“Fine,” said Oswald, with defiance, handing his cane off to Mendel as Edward rushed to catch up with them after several seconds in which he began to head for the stairs. “Let the vultures have at me.”

They walked through the open conference-room doors to thunderous applause. The onslaught of camera-flashes and enthusiastic vocal interjections made Edward feel dizzy.

“Through the roof, across the board!” Mendel said to Oswald as she dashed down the aisle behind him with Edward on her heels. “Jobs are up, markets are up…crime way, _way_ down. You did it!” She stepped to one side as Oswald struck a pose at the front of the room, tugging Edward back to stand at her elbow; Edward shook her off, straightening his jacket. “Enjoy the moment, sir!”

“Excuse me, coming through, _excuse_ me,” said Tarquin Stemmel, pushing his way down the aisle, which had since their entrance flooded with camera-wielding reporters in search of a better angle. “Praise well deserved, Mr. Mayor,” he said, insinuating himself directly to Oswald’s left, posing along with him. “I really think we need to cash in on this good news immediately.”

Bristling, Edward stepped up to Oswald’s right side. He was reassured by how swiftly Oswald’s hand came up to rest between his shoulder blades, more intimate than the arm-touches he’d favored before they declared themselves. “I’d advise against that,” he said. “I need to have a look.”

“You are a clever fellow, Tarquin,” said Oswald, jovially, leaning closer to Edward as a photographer stepped up to get a shot of them together, “but your services aren’t needed given Ed's presence.”

“I consider it my prerogative to step in when the need arises, and, as of this morning, there was need,” said Tarquin, smoothly, waving to one of the cameras. “Your chief of staff was not present when the figures arrived, so I made short work of reviewing them and got here as soon as I could. My job as _deputy_ chief of staff is to serve you with the exact same zeal and smarts as Mr. Nygma.”

“Exact same,” Edward scoffed under his breath. He wanted nothing so much as to remove the switchblade from his pocket and plunge it in Tarquin’s jugular, but Oswald’s touch grounded him.

“Ed, calm down,” Oswald murmured in Edward’s ear. “It’s just a misunderstanding. I’ll make sure he surrenders the data to you as soon as this circus is over. Pose with me till they’re gone,” he implored, rubbing circles against Edward’s back. “You look so _dashing_ today.”

Edward nodded, forcing himself to smile and wave. This new suit became him as well as the rest.

Oblivious, Tarquin greeted a few more reporters and then started to hustle them out.

“Thank you all so much for coming!” he said, beckoning to Mendel as he stepped into the clearing aisle with his back to the crowd. She handed Oswald’s cane off to him—a curious action, as if by prior agreement—and followed the press out of the room.

“Thanks, everyone. Bob, great to see you; Bill, take care. Valerie, that will be _quite_ enough for now. You got a bite yesterday at the library,” he told the persistent _Gazette_ correspondent over his shoulder. He coiffed his hair as the last of the reporters shuffled out, turning back to face Oswald and Edward. “Margaret Hearst. Know her?”

Edward took immense pleasure in not only the epic proportions of Oswald’s eye-roll, but also in the fact that Oswald was adamantly using him for support in the absence of his cane. His advice was being taken to heart more and more.

“Of course!” Oswald retorted, fixing Tarquin with an impressive recasting of what he’d once heard Caroline refer to as _Oswald’s signature bitch-face_. She wasn’t wrong. Oswald could wither nearly anyone with it in mere seconds.

Tarquin ignored Oswald’s sarcasm and went on. “When I saw these numbers come in, I thought—who better to help us capitalize on this than Margaret Hearst? The whole city—no, the whole country—watches her show,” he oozed, approaching them with Oswald’s cane extended as if in exchange for agreement. “She can take you to a whole new level, solidify your legacy on a _national_ scale.” 

“Oswald,” Edward whispered, “don’t listen to him. He’s up to something. This is a _terrible_ —”

“National scale?” Oswald echoed, starry-eyed, glancing at Edward to make sure he’d heard properly.

“Don’t,” Edward gritted out, pressing his hand against the small of Oswald’s back. “ _Please_.”

“She's in my office, and she's dying to meet you,” said Tarquin, extending the cane so that it was within Oswald’s reach. “Turn her down now, and she won't come back, like, _ever_. What do you say?” 

Oswald snatched the cane away from Tarquin, planting it with a sharp _crack_. “How’s my hair?”

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong,_ Edward thought, rushing along beside Oswald as Tarquin led them out of the room. Everything was wrong, and his head was spinning, and he _couldn’t_ —

“These things normally come with more preparation!” he hissed angrily in Oswald’s ear as they caught up with Tarquin outside the elevator. “You’re being baited into this with _blatant flattery_!”

“Ed, I’m sure it will be _fine_ ,” said Oswald, tugging him forward when the elevator arrived, tucking them into the back corner while Tarquin remained closer to the front. “For a man in my position, especially given my past, literally _no_ press is bad press. We can weather it.”

“Hearst is crafty,” Edward forged on, taking Oswald by the shoulders. “You've _seen_ her show.”

“Yes,” Oswald agreed, propping his cane against the wall as the ancient piece of machinery juddered upward. “And knowing her tricks will place me in better stead for getting through an interview.”

“I don’t like it,” Edward insisted, the fact that Oswald was stroking his wrists scarcely helping at all. “Tarquin overstepped his authority on this. He could at _least_ have sent me a text.”

“Tarquin exists precisely _for_ moments like this,” Oswald reminded him. “When you need back-up, no matter how briefly or extensively. City hall needs to run like a well-oiled machine.”

Edward experienced his first moment of genuine fury with Oswald, jerking him forward as the elevator creaked to a stop. He shook Oswald just hard enough to elicit a startled squeak.

“It’s your fault we were late this time,” Edward reminded him harshly. “What happened to being grown-ups about—”

Tarquin was side-eyeing them with morbid interest by now, but Oswald didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Ed, _please_ get a grip on yourself,” Oswald implored, retrieving his cane. “Let’s at least hear what Hearst has to say. It’s probably going to be one of those hobbies-and-personal-interest type features where she talks to you at home for an hour. What was it you said about humanizing me?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Edward, unhappily, following Tarquin and Oswald out of the elevator.

As Tarquin led them across the hall into his cramped office, Margaret Hearst turned from where she stood staring out the grime-coated window. She wore a brown jacket over her multicolor woven dress, both of which hit at mid-thigh. Her costume jewelry was tasteful.

“Mayor, this is Miss Hearst,” said Tarquin, indicating that Oswald should shake her hand. “Miss Hearst, this is Mayor Cobblepot…and his chief of staff, my direct superior, Mr. Edward Nygma.”

Hearst didn’t spare Edward more than a fleeting glance, but it was as if she’d scanned him to memory.

“Perhaps you've truly found your calling in office, Mr. Cobblepot,” she said, her graciousness turning instantly to acid, “or perhaps you just know how to show people only what they want to see.”

Edward had endured enough. He made an attempt to step between Oswald and Hearst, ready to tell her that Tarquin had overstepped his bounds and that she was free to call him later in the week, but Oswald stayed him with a pleading hand curled around his wrist.

Hearst recorded the gesture with a flick of her eyes. “Either way,” she continued, “I plan to get inside your head and share what I find with the citizens of Gotham. Does that deter you?”

Oswald let go of Edward’s wrist, responding with an acerbic, exaggerated turn of his head. “Please.”

“Then I think the exclusive interview should happen here at city hall this Friday,” said Hearst. “Live.”

Looking to Edward in abrupt panic, Oswald protested, “Actually, I would prefer to do it at home—”

“Ah ah ah _ah_ ,” Hearst scolded before Edward could intervene, getting right up in Oswald’s face. “This Friday, or not at all. I'll be honest with you, Mr. Mayor? I'm not a fan. I shan't be holding back. My audience expects the truth, and I give it to them.”

“The truth is in my numbers, Miss Hearst,” said Oswald, steeling himself in the face of her insolence.

“Then Friday it is,” Hearst agreed, striding past them. “Gotham will see their mayor...as he truly is.”

“Dig deep,” Oswald said boldly, sounding more confident than he looked. “I have nothing to hide.”

“Actually, _Ms._ Hearst?” said Edward, raising his voice, taking a gamble. “A word, if I may?”

Hearst spun on her heel and strode a few steps back in their direction, eyes narrowed at Edward.

“Mr. Nygma, I’m given to understand you were late this morning,” she said coolly, “which necessitated my dealing with your deputy in the first place. I would rather have dealt with you.”

“You’re dealing with me now,” he said, stepping fully between her and Oswald. “Your demands speak to a measure of arrogant certainty that ill becomes a journalist of your reputation,” he went on, remembering what it had meant to face Jim Gordon in defense of Oswald’s honor and his own. “In light of this _faux pas_ , we request a compromise in good faith. We agree to Friday, but not to your proposed location. You’ll come to the mayor's mansion, or you’ll get no interview at all.”

Hearst licked her lips, stepping as close to Edward as she’d stepped to Oswald. “Why should I agree?”

“Because, Ms. Hearst,” Edward continued, using anger to steel his resolve, “I do not tolerate insubordination amongst the staff, and that’s exactly what’s gotten us off on the wrong foot this morning. As a journalist of your stature should be aware, the nature of Mayor Cobblepot’s disability frequently requires accommodation. It’s more difficult for him to leave the house in a timely manner on the days in which he’s experiencing pain, and, as I’m resident on the premises and his highest-ranking assistant, it behooves me to ensure that those needs are met so that the mayor can perform his job. If a working breakfast at home, for instance, ensures that he’ll be in better condition when he finally arrives at city hall, then I see to it that breakfast is a productive affair. _That’s_ why you should agree. Otherwise, I’ll see to it that your colleagues hear in short order—”

“Mr. Nygma,” said Hearst, icily, “I get your point. No need to belabor it. Friday at the mansion.”

Edward felt air rush back into his lungs and a ringing in his ears even as Oswald latched onto his arm.

“Oh, _Ed_ ,” he whispered in awe. “I knew you were about to turn this around, I _knew_ it.”

“Indeed I am,” said Edward, smiling at Oswald, feeling distinctly lightheaded. He turned to face a speechless Tarquin. “The figures, please, Mr. Stemmel,” he said, extending his hand. “You’re fired.”

Tarquin sputtered, glancing rapidly back and forth between Edward and Oswald. “Sir, I beg—”

“You beg nothing,” Oswald said with pitiless flippancy. “You heard my chief of staff. Get on your way.”

Knowing he'd been outmaneuvered, Tarquin fetched the binder from his desk, set it in Edward's hands, and left the room with his head defiantly high. Edward wondered if he'd even return for his things.

“Thank God your office is on this level,” sighed Oswald, taking Edward's arm, tugging him toward the door. “I need to sit down somewhere quiet.”

“That makes two of us,” Edward agreed avidly, hugging the binder to his chest as they left the room.

Oswald slammed and locked the door behind them. The next thing he did was grab Edward by the tie and yank him down into a brutal, almost bruising kiss. Edward whimpered in astonishment.

“Remind me to, I don't know, actually _listen_ to you when it's important,” he panted raggedly.

“I can't blame you for wanting what she's offered,” Edward mumbled, doing his best to keep kissing Oswald, all the while leading him in the direction of his desk so he could ditch the binder. “It's a once in a lifetime opportunity. Tarquin _was_ right; she likely wouldn't have offered again.”

“You're the line between me and putting my foot in it,” Oswald sighed, content to let Edward pull him sideways into his lap once he'd taken a seat in his swivel-chair. “I need to learn when not to cross you.”

Edward kissed Oswald again, chastely this time. He still felt disoriented and slightly ill, his mouth dry.

“You're the line between me and a number of things I'd rather not name,” he said softly. “We're even.”

At that moment, someone knocked on Edward's door hard enough to rattle it in its ancient hinges.

“Boss, I know you're in there!” Gabriel called. “I tried your office first and got _nada_. Boss?”

Oswald slid out of Edward's lap and straightened his jacket, cane still in hand. “Just a moment!”

“I'll let him in,” Edward said, disappointed, racing to unbolt the door. “Gabe. How nice to see you.”

Gabriel nodded deferentially to Edward, approaching the desk. Oswald had planted himself in Edward's chair as if he belonged there, doing his best to appear collected and nonchalant.

“Our guests are getting difficult,” he said, not even waiting for Oswald to address him. “We had to tie both to chairs early this morning because we caught one of 'em trying to work out a way to escape. The sooner you come deal with these clowns, the better. I wish you'd just let us take care of it. Zsasz is itching to shoot, and I honestly think Vee just wants to go home.”

“As trying as this responsibility must be,” said Oswald, painstakingly condescending, “it is _imperative_ that you hold them until the end of the day. If Ed and I don't work until at least five, we'll have more to deal with than just ambivalent coverage from Valerie Vale.”

“You've got more already,” said Gabriel. “Downstairs is buzzing about Friday. You said yes to _Hearst_?”

“There are still more skeptics than I'd like,” said Edward, crossing to the desk, posting himself at Oswald's side. “Besides, an interview at home was the middle ground she agreed to.”

“I don't like her, boss,” Gabriel said. “That's my two cents' worth. She'll be pretty bad for business.”

“Fortunately, I don't pay you for your two cents' worth in any capacity relating to my daytime political activities,” said Oswald, waving dismissively. “Tell Caroline to be waiting out back at five _sharp_.”

“Yes, boss,” sighed Gabriel, shoulders slumped. He sauntered back out, slamming the door behind him.

“You have your pistol, right?” Edward asked, rushing back over to the desk. He sat down on the edge of it, leaning forward to pat down Oswald's jacket, relieved when he found its contours. “Ah. Good.”

“And you have your clever little knife?” asked Oswald, smirking as he worked a hand into Edward's pocket. “I have the feeling this will be a quick and dirty affair. We'll be home in time for supper.”

“Do you have any idea where they're being held?” Edward asked. “Is it in the usual district?”

“Nearer to that section of the docks with the view you like,” Oswald said. “Gabe found a place with some kind of subterranean storage unit. From a security standpoint, it was perfect.”

“We'd better get to work, Oswald,” Edward cautioned. “Let me help you get up to your office.”

“Why the mayor and the chief of staff aren't traditionally on the same level is _beyond_ me,” said Oswald. “We ought to change that. In the meantime, thanks, I'll stay here with you for the rest of the day. No one would think twice about the necessity of us going over those figures together.”

Edward fetched one of the spare side chairs, pulling it up alongside Oswald. “Then let's get started.”

Throughout such banalities as phone-call interruptions, forms being delivered, and Mendel unexpectedly bringing them slices of pizza for lunch, they _were_ adults for the duration. Edward was fascinated by the data, and Oswald, disbelieving, asked him to repeat himself every other line item.

By five o'clock, they were tired in mind, but not so much in body. Whatever awaited them in that warehouse, Edward was thrilled at the prospect. 

Caroline hustled them into the limousine empty-handed for once, her cigarettes nowhere in evidence. Oswald rested his head against Edward's chest for the entirety of the ride, absently tracing his finger over Edward's tie pin.

“We haven't done this together in a while,” Edward murmured into Oswald's hair. “Exciting, isn't it?”

“Provided nothing goes wrong, yes,” Oswald agreed, dotting the question-mark, his hand falling still.

Gabriel met them immediately out of the limousine, leading them through the raw, windy dusk to the warehouse entrance. Oswald had brought his cane along without Edward having to tell him.

Two stops down in a rusty cargo elevator saw them emerge into a fluorescent-lit, debris-strewn space. They had to walk about thirty feet to reach the spot where Zsasz and Vee were seated on the edge of a battered table lined with unused torture implements, eating sandwiches and chatting.

Edward found the approach simultaneously over-dramatic and banal. To the left of the dining hit-persons, an exhausted, worse-for-wear Tabitha and Butch sat bound to rickety wooden chairs.

“Look who finally decided to turn up,” said Zsasz, setting aside what was left of his sandwich. “It's no fun down here. Twenty-four hours with these losers and their bickering will bore you to tears.”

Vee went on stuffing her face, but she offered Edward a wave that was something approaching friendly.

“Then it's a good thing we don't plan to be here that long," said Oswald, propping his cane against the table. He ignored the variety of sharp, creatively-selected tools and drew the pistol from his jacket.

“Hey, Butch,” said Tabitha, low and toneless, kicking the leg of her companion's chair. “Wake up.”

Edward stepped up in front of the erstwhile bodyguard, slipping his hand into his pocket. As Butch's eyes fluttered open, he drew out the knife, flicking open the blade. He pressed the flat of it against Butch's cheek as the man's eyes went wide, clucking his tongue in disapproval.

“You found it so comfortable down here you were able to get some _sleep_?” Oswald asked Tabitha, keeping the gun trained on her forehead. “That certainly was not our intention at all.”

Butch, wide awake now, spat in Edward's face. It was a near miss, but it got him a clean, shallow incision from cheekbone down to the corner of his mouth all the same. He grunted in pain.

“After what you did to me on election night and at The Sirens,” Edward told him cheerfully, shifting his knife from the bleeding side of Butch's face to the unmarred one, “you're a dead man.”

“I told your stooges here they should've just gotten it over with,” said Tabitha, glaring hard at Oswald.

“That would have been too easy,” scolded Oswald, sounding amused, “and nowhere near as much fun.”

Meanwhile, Edward was fascinated by Butch's defiance. He delivered a matching incision just to see if he could get another sound out of him, but Butch sat in belligerent silence, his breath hissing harshly out his nostrils. Edward placed the point of his knife in the hollow of Butch's throat.

There were more productive places to target, but this felt suitably dramatic.

“If I slip this in just right, you won't die for hours,” Edward explained. “Then again, if I were to do that, you'd find talking difficult. And I have a few questions to ask you before we say goodbye. More out of sentiment than anything else, you understand.”

“Skinny, psychotic bastard,” Butch muttered under his breath, glance shifting to Oswald. “I just don't get it, boss. Don't get what you see in him. This one's gonna bring down more trouble on your head than you ever dreamed, take my word for it.”

Oswald cocked the pistol and shifted his aim from Tabitha to Butch, eyes blazing. “Wrong answer, Butch,” he said, limping over to stand beside Edward. “And Ed hasn't even asked you a question. _Do_ try a bit harder to pay attention to directions.”

 _Time to have some fun_ , Edward decided, struck by how blessedly quiet and clear his headspace had grown. He lifted the knife from Butch's throat without leaving a mark there, opting instead to drive the point home just above and between those infuriating, unkempt eyebrows. 

While he carved his favorite punctuation mark, swirling flourishes and all, Butch _howled_.

“This isn't your style,” Tabitha appealed to Oswald, her voice strained. “Just get it over with.”

“I've decided that _you_ ,” Oswald instructed, swinging his arm till the gun was inches from her temple, “will be quiet until it's your turn. Ed's working on a masterpiece. He needs to concentrate.”

Edward stood back and studied his handiwork. “It's just—the red _ruins_ it, don't you think?”

“Let's cut our losses and admire what a steady hand you have,” suggested Oswald, in fond exasperation. “Nowhere on this planet are you going to find somebody who bleeds green.”

“I guess not,” Edward agreed, wiping the blade on the sleeve of Butch's coat before flicking it shut. “It's been a really long day, so I'm going to cut to the chase,” he said, smirking at his unintentional pun. “That unfortunate situation the other morning involving Oswald's shipment. Was it you?”

Tabitha groaned and rolled her eyes. “Of _course_ it was us, what more do you want? Being a thorn in your sides was about the best we could hope for, so why not hit you where it hurts?”

Oswald shuffled forward, jamming the barrel directly against her temple, sighing in disappointment.

“One more word, and there's going to be _quite_ the mess on Zsasz's collection of fine toys.”

“The longer I loom, the less likely I seem,” said Edward. “The closer I draw, the less easy you dream. What am I?"

“Don't know, Riddle-man,” Butch sighed, closing his eyes. “Don't even care. Hey, Tabs—you don't gotta answer this, but...” He swallowed, turning his head, eyes fixed on hers. “Was it worth it, helping my sorry ass? I hope so. These have been some of the best days I've ever had.”

Tabitha mouthed something that looked a lot like _don't say it_. Edward caught Oswald's eye, completely in awe of how Oswald hadn't once faltered in a stance that was surely causing him agony.

“You bet,” Butch said, eyes flicking back up to regard Oswald and Edward with disdain. “Besides, this lovey-dovey tag teaming thing they've got going here is starting to make me sick.”

Oswald offered Edward the gun, his smile so beautiful Edward could kiss it. “The honor's all yours.”

“True, but the pleasure's _also_ mine,” said Edward, stepping close to him, voice low with desire. “I didn't get to watch you the other morning, and I regret that more than anything. _Would_ you?”

“My dearest Edward,” Oswald sighed, taking aim at point-blank range. “Who am I to even resist?”

Edward watched with a shiver as the question-mark's ornate ascender served as Oswald's bulls-eye. Butch jerked at the impact, sagging in his restraints with grim finality. Edward set a hand on Oswald's shoulder.

“That's an extreme case of pantomime,” he remarked, “but his answer is _technically_ correct.”

Oswald tucked the pistol inside his jacket. He seemed peripherally aware of Tabitha's harsh breathing.

“I'll never get tired of the way you look at me for this,” he breathed, tugging Edward down for a kiss.

“I wish I had hit you in the head,” Tabitha spat, cutting through the warm muddle of Edward's thoughts and the slow, stunned applause likely attributable to Zsasz. “Precious memories, huh, Oswald?"

Edward turned sharply, breaking the kiss, eliciting soft protest from Oswald. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” she panted. “I gave your boyfriend that bullet-wound you nursed him back from.”

His vision turning white-hot with rage, Edward fumbled inside Oswald's jacket until he came up with the pistol, taking aim at Tabitha's forehead. “This wasn't originally in the game plan, _but_ —”

“As much as I wish such an action were expedient, it's _really_ not,” Oswald sighed, setting a hand on Edward's wrist, lowering the weapon. “See, Ms. Galavan, what we need is for you to go home, forget about this unhappy affair, and keep Ms. Kean under your thumb—which, if I'm not mistaken, you know how to do. It's about checks and balances.”

“Can I at least maim her?” Edward asked, recalling the petulant, persuasive tone he'd used a week ago.

“Fine,” Oswald sighed indulgently, letting go of Edward's hand. “Just make sure it's nothing Barbara can't nurse _her_ back from. That kind of thing's conducive to strengthening bonds, you know.”

Edward took Oswald's arm, walking him over to lean against the table next to his cane. He made an impressive show of stepping up to Tabitha and bringing the barrel of the gun down to rest in a familiar, precise spot against her right shoulder. He looked her directly in the eyes.

“With any luck, the bullet will pass straight through,” he said, pulling the trigger without hesitation.

Tabitha heaved in her chair, wound beginning to bleed out in much the same way that Oswald's once had. Satisfied, Edward rejoined Oswald, tucked the pistol back in his jacket, and handed him his cane.

“Gabe, be a gentleman and take her home, won't you?” said Oswald, in the direction of the flabbergasted trio, slipping an arm around Edward's waist. “Poor Barbara has been worried _sick_. She'll be ever so grateful.”

“How about the body, boss?” asked Zsasz, with a hint of challenge in his voice. “I ain't gonna claim the guy was like my brother, but I bear him some respect after all this time. It's kind of a shame.”

“Leave it,” Oswald sneered. “For the rats and whoever's unfortunate enough to use this place next.”

“I'd advise against that,” Edward murmured. “At least when I used sodium hydroxide the first time, there were only bones left to dispose of.”

“You're disgusting,” Tabitha seethed as Gabriel untied her from the chair, leaving her hands shackled. “You're nothing but a pair of freaks with the devil's own luck! That kind of thing will come back to bite you. Wait and see.”

“Pot, kettle, black?” retorted Edward, before Oswald could hurl a comeback. “Next time, I'll shoot _you_ in the head whether Oswald likes it or not.”

Oswald sighed, turning Edward to face him with a fingertip against Edward's chin. “Now, my love, it's been a very long day. Let's get you home.”

“I had a _blast_ ,” Edward gushed, leaning down to peck Oswald on the lips. “Let's do date-nights like this one more often. Remember Leonard?”

“Ed, I couldn't forget the time I've spent with you even if I tried,” Oswald reassured him, nudging him along on the interminable walk back toward the elevator, where Zsasz and Vee now waited to escort them out.


	16. Catastrophe

Oswald tapped the fingers of his left hand impatiently against his thigh as the elevator rattled them back to the surface. Close beside him, Edward was beaming, still giddy. He took Oswald's restless hand with flirtatious deliberation, working his index finger up beneath Oswald's sleeve.

“The night's still young,” he whispered in Oswald's ear, lightly tracing a familiar shape against Oswald's pulse-point. The touch combined with Edward's breath sent a shiver down Oswald's spine.

“ _Behave_ ,” Oswald hissed, squeezing Edward's hand. “At least wait until we're in the car.”

“Oh, what a hardship,” Edward retorted as the elevator came to a halt. “After you,” he said, waiting until Zsasz and Vee had exited to escort Oswald out. “Any chance of giving those two the slip?”

Oswald didn't speak until they had all made it into the open air. Caroline was propped against the hood of the limousine, smoking and checking her messages. She looked up as they approached, pitching what was left of her Pall Mall and pocketing the phone.

“That didn't take anywhere near as long as I expected,” she said conversationally. “Back to the old homestead, or will I be taking you gents out for an evening on the town?”

“Home for us,” Oswald confirmed, giving Edward a pointed glance, indicating that he should get in the car. He turned to Vee, handing her the envelope that he'd kept tucked inside his jacket next to the gun. “This should cover the overtime, and then some,” he said. “Why don't you and Zsasz stay behind and help Gabe with...whatever. We're covered.”

“Somethin' in there for me, too, boss?” Zsasz asked, gesturing to the envelope as Vee peered inside and made a pleasantly satisfied face. “I didn't even get to add to my tally.”

“Split it,” Oswald replied, turning to join Edward, grunting in pain as he climbed into the back of the vehicle. “Take Gabe out for a drink afterward. He's looking a bit overworked, don't you think?”

“Sure thing, boss. Aren't we all,” said Vee, saluting as Caroline slammed the door behind him.

“Come _here_ ,” Edward demanded as soon as Oswald propped his cane to one side, practically yanking Oswald down onto the seat beside him. “I think some proper thanks are in order, don't—”

Oswald cut him off with a kiss, unable to think of anything except how much he, too, wished they'd been alone from the moment they'd stepped into the elevator. Edward moaned appreciatively as Oswald shifted to straddle his lap, the limousine's sudden motion swaying their bodies harder into contact. Oswald lost no time burying his fingers in Edward's hair, deepening the kiss so aggressively that their teeth clashed. Edward's whimper turned shrill as Oswald gave a merciless tug at his nape.

“Oh my,” Edward mumbled into Oswald's mouth, licking frantically at Oswald's lower lip. “ _Hello_.”

“Shut up,” Oswald laughed, loosening Edward's tie so that he could nip his way from Edward's jaw down his neck. “Let's see how far this fantasy of yours goes in fifteen minutes.”

“Far enough, I hope, but not _too_ ,” Edward panted, raking his fingers through Oswald's hair in kind, shivering as Oswald bit down hard at his collarbone. “This'll do for—foreplay, _ah_!”

“See,” Oswald murmured, licking the spot to soothe the sting, “adulting isn't as bad as you think.”

There was no reason to feel _too_ put-out about the fact that they were horizontal on the seat by the time Caroline got them home, especially not with Edward begging under him. Pulling their shirts and jackets back in order as they struggled to sit up was something of a futile endeavor.

“Nice, relaxing night in, then?” Caroline asked, peering dubiously at them as she opened the door.

“Yes,” Oswald agreed, short of breath as he snatched his cane and hobbled out into the dusk with a sheepish, pink-cheeked Edward on his heels. “That's precisely what I'd hoped.”

Edward mumbled good night to her as he caught up with Oswald at the front door, fumbling the keys out of his pocket. He let them inside with shaking fingers, all too easily backed up against the door once it was safely shut behind them. Oswald grazed his knuckle against Edward's cheek.

“I can hear Olga in the kitchen,” he said, going up on tiptoe in spite of the pain in his leg. “She expects we'll want dinner, but something tells me that's not what you're in the mood for right now.”

“No,” Edward said, breathing just as harshly as he had been in the car moments before. “Oswald—”

“Patience,” Oswald replied, stepping away from him, bending with a hiss to rid himself of his shoes.

Even in his desire-muddled state, Edward followed suit. He helped Oswald up the stairs with focused patience, taking each and every pause as an opportunity to kiss Oswald long and slow up against the banister. Hazily, Oswald wondered if Olga had come out, seen them, and retreated.

On reaching the top, they swayed into each other, stumbling. Oswald planted his cane, bracing them.

“Now I _definitely_ wish I'd made a pass at you back in the day,” he said. “Post-Leonard.”

“I can say I definitely wish you had,” agreed Edward, his voice low and strained. “Bed.”

The number of times they'd wrecked Olga's pristine handiwork with the covers was rising, but this time felt thrillingly different. When Edward manhandled him down onto the mattress, Oswald obliged, letting his arms spread limply in surrender. From this vantage point, watching Edward shed half his clothing in desperate haste was outright pornographic.

“Your turn,” Edward said, shirt hanging loose, tie askew, down to nothing otherwise. He made short, efficient work of Oswald's bottom layers, urging Oswald to sit up only once he had tossed them on the floor. “Somehow,” he laughed, slightly manic, helping Oswald out of his jacket, “I don't think Gabe and Vee would have appreciated this, and...” He pinned Oswald on his back, attacking Oswald's shirt buttons between starving kisses. “And Zsasz would have appreciated it a little too _much_.”

“Yes, well,” Oswald panted, not shocked to find Edward as hard as he'd been for almost the entirety of the ride, “the man does have a leer on him.” He caught hold of Edward's tie, wrapping it around his fist, dragging Edward down until they were nose to nose again. “ _Ed_ ,” he said, breathing his way through the pain it cost him to wrap his legs tight around Edward's waist.

“ _Mmm_ ,” was all Edward managed in response, pushing his tongue past Oswald's teeth. “Yes?”

“If you had something particular in mind, now would be the time to tell me,” Oswald mumbled, dizzy with the feel of Edward grinding down against him, tightening his hold on Edward's tie.

“Oh,” Edward said, his mouth hot and wet against Oswald's ear, abruptly frozen in place. “I hadn't really thought beyond...” He shuddered as Oswald trailed a hand from his wrinkled collar down the length of his fabric-covered spine. His breath hitched as Oswald dragged up the hem of his shirt, Oswald's sweat-slick palm dragging suggestively lower. “I, oh _my_ , I—” He cut off with a gasp as Oswald slid his fingertips from Edward's tailbone to the cleft of his ass, shifting eagerly back into the contact. “Yes, try...that.”

Oswald attempted to kiss Edward's nose, but his lips ended up smashed against Edward's glasses instead. “Words, Ed,” he prompted, pressing in experimentally with his index finger. “Use them.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Edward hissed, pausing for another sloppy kiss. “Your fingers. Use _them_.”

“Nightstand,” Oswald said against Edward's chin, tapping his backside. “You'll have to let me up.” He reluctantly loosened his grasp on Edward's tie, letting it unspool from his other hand.

“No, stay there,” Edward replied, scrambling across the mattress, returning with the much-diminished tube after a comical, graceless clatter. “We're almost out,” he said, shifting back to straddle Oswald's hips while he unscrewed it, dropping the cap in his haste. “I'll make a note to restock.”

“It's a wonder you don't get our morning meetings and bedroom activities mixed up,” Oswald said, steadying Edward's shaking hands against his chest, taking the lubricant away from him. He watched Edward's eyes intently as he got some of the stuff on his fingers, warming it as well as he could. “This would be a lot easier with our positions reversed, but seeing as I'm trapped...” He took hold of Edward's tie again, not even needing to use it; Edward kissed Oswald’s head back down against the coverlet with shocking fervor. “I can work with this,” Oswald said, gentling Edward's harsh gasp with a swipe of his tongue as he insinuated his sticky fingers where they'd been moments before.

“I like...seeing you like this,” Edward whispered, letting his weight bear down so that his erection pressed against Oswald's, trembling as Oswald tentatively worked a fingertip into him.

“You need to tell me how it feels,” said Oswald, steadying his voice. “If you need me to stop.”

Edward shook his head, lips parted, rocking back into the touch as Oswald drove it slightly deeper.

“I never...tried, never tried this,” he admitted, eyes fluttering shut, “on myself, I mean. Oswald...”

Oswald bit his lip, letting go of Edward's tie so that he could cup Edward's cheek, reassuring him.

“You were the most beautiful thing tonight,” he said, withdrawing just enough to add a second finger, feeling his pulse spike when Edward moaned and rocked back again. “You were exquisite.”

“Don't stop,” Edward pleaded, eyes shut tight behind the glare off his lenses. “ _Oh_. Don't...”

Oswald removed his trembling hand from Edward's cheek and snagged the bridge of his glasses, lifting them off with difficulty. He tossed them aside on the pillows, turning his attention back to the fact that Edward was moving with greater insistence. Oswald guided him back down into a kiss, remembering how effective the distraction had been when Edward had done this to him.

“Is two enough?” he asked, turning his wrist, attempting to hit whatever angle each agitated shift of Edward's hips wanted him to find. “Edward, _breathe_. You need to tell me—”

“Three,” Edward moaned, forcing his eyes wide open. “You can try— _fuck_ , it feels like—”

“I know,” Oswald said gently, his wrist already too tired for the strain of withdrawal. “It feels like you're about to fall apart on me,” he blurted, unable to keep an edge of fond laughter from his voice as he complied with Edward's request, meeting with more resistance than before. “Three.”

Edward tensed from thighs to shoulders before rocking back onto Oswald's hand with a groan.

“Oh dear,” he gritted out, squeezing his eyes shut again, flushed redder than Oswald had ever seen him. “I don't suppose you...well, as...close as...” He whimpered and squirmed, sending a jolt of pleasure down Oswald's spine as the friction between them increased. “If you...wanted to...”

“Ed, please look at me,” Oswald panted with considerable effort. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

Edward keeled forward, dislodging himself from Oswald's fingers, gasping into the curve of Oswald's neck, and, _oh_ —if those were tears, then Oswald didn't quite know what to do.

“I think maybe you could give your hand a break,” he managed thinly, “and let me ride you?”

“Number one, you might be crying,” Oswald pointed out, embarrassingly close to the edge in spite of the intensity of his concern, “and, number two, even at this stage, it'll probably _hurt_.”

Edward sat up and peered down at Oswald through slightly watery eyes. “I'm not crying,” he said.

Oswald grinned up at him, wiping his hand on the coverlet before taking Edward's face in both hands.

“Don't think that's what it would take to please me,” he said. “Ed, just having you _here_...”

Edward gave a short laugh, turning his face into the least sticky of Oswald's hands. “I know.”

“I'm going to bundle you up and make you tea any minute now,” Oswald prompted. “Unless—”

Edward cast about for the tube, finding it discarded at Oswald's shoulder. Tie bedraggled, shirt a mess, he got down to the business of shifting back enough to get his newly slicked fingers on both of them.

“Too close anyway,” he said, and any coherency left to Oswald's thoughts shorted out as Edward began to stroke them with single-minded intensity. “I wouldn't have— _oh_. Wouldn't have lasted.”

“No,” Oswald groaned, pushing up into the touch, up against Edward's weight, “I _wouldn't_ —”

“Ah, _ah_ ,” Edward gasped, letting go in order to brace himself against Oswald's shoulders, his lovely features undone, _undone_ as he rocked forward against Oswald and came.

“There,” Oswald gasped, too transfixed to let himself give in to the desire to close his eyes. He knew how to be quiet, knew how to let his breath catch in his throat and fade, soundless, as he joined him.

They were still for a while, panting harshly in the silence. Edward's arms finally gave, folding him down against Oswald's chest. Oswald blinked, aware only from Edward's slight twitch that his eyelashes must be tickling Edward's cheek. He wrapped his arms around Edward, protective.

“I'm going to insist that we clean up and go eat something,” Oswald said at length. “Is that all right?”

“Can't we get cleaned up and ask Olga to bring it?” Edward mumbled sleepily. “Is that an option?”

“That would require sending a text,” Oswald replied, “and my phone's somewhere on the floor.”

“I'll get it,” Edward said, peeling himself reluctantly away from Oswald, leaving him with a kiss.

Dinner in bed wasn't the sort of demand Oswald had ever imagined making of Olga; then again, he'd never imagined he'd end up in the kind of situation that would make him want to. She agreed to leave a tray outside the door, and that was sufficient. Twenty minutes of fussy onion-picking aside, they were better off for both the hydration and the nourishment, and slept the sounder for it.

The next morning, Edward got them up and out of the house with minimal delays.

If Mendel was startled to see them arrive at work on time, then she certainly did a passable job of not showing it. If Edward had, in response to the week’s events, launched a covert campaign toward improving the perception of their work-ethic around the courthouse, then Oswald had to admit he’d been efficient—up to and including the removal of contrary parties.

Edward had a day of meetings with various civic officials on Oswald's behalf, and Oswald supposed he could do worse than spend an entire Thursday seated at his desk reading and signing things. After the evening they'd passed, his leg would no doubt thank him for it.

Before getting down to business on anything new, Oswald eyed the folder of unfinished policies and procedures copy-editing with fierce resentment. He considered the various members of staff at his disposal downstairs, almost sorry that Tarquin was no longer available. This sort of thing would have been right up his persnickety alley, and it would have pleased Edward to know that Oswald had assigned him a piece of drudgery.

Flipping through the remaining pages, Oswald thought of Mendel and her ready attention to detail. Inasmuch as they’d already persuaded the girl to take Searle’s place until they could find a permanent replacement, she seemed eager to take on additional duties in order to prove herself. She appeared in Oswald’s office within minutes of his call and took the file away.

Shortly after two o'clock, Edward turned up with take-out from Oswald's favorite Thai place halfway across the city. It was an exceedingly thoughtful gesture to say the least. Oswald could have done without an interruption in the midst of watching Edward enthusiastically slurp his way through that ghastly iced tea he liked, but Gabriel looked perturbed.

“Zsasz has been off on some wild goose-chase for Falcone,” he reported. “Vee says it's got something to do with Gordon and that mess with his son. I wouldn't be surprised if he's taken out a hit.”

Oswald shrugged, pushing around what was left of his pad thai, plus the bits, mostly bean-sprouts, that Edward had fussily extracted from his own. “If I know Jim, and I _do_ ,” he said, “it won't stick.”

Edward set down his cup, wiping his mouth. “I'd put money on Lee having something to do with it.”

“Save your paycheck,” said Gabriel, making a grab for one of their untouched fortune cookies. “Any time that bald nut-job's gone this many hours, it's a merry chase. With Falcones, it's blood for blood.”

“I do marvel at how completely native Dr. Thompkins seems to have gone,” Oswald said, swilling the ice-melted dregs of his limeade. “Those photographs from the funeral were striking.”

“Anyway, thought you'd want to know,” Gabriel said, crunching on the cookie, studying the fortune-slip he'd gotten with a shrug. “Says here a secret admirer is afraid to step forward, and my lucky numbers for the week are two, twelve, thirty-one, and seventeen. You got anything for me?”

“Keep Ms. Aragon close,” Oswald instructed him. “Let me know if she says anything else. And if Zsasz turns up, let me know if _he_ has anything to say about his daring escapade.”

“Sure thing,” said Gabriel, swiping another fortune cookie on his way out. “Gonna play the lottery.”

“I never did understand the draw of gambling,” Edward remarked. “At least not until I saw the profit side. The new casino will be...lucrative, to say the least, once it's up and running.”

“My mother used to like those scratch-tickets,” said Oswald, pensively, finding that he just couldn't swallow the diluted dregs left in his cup. “We won a hundred dollars once. It made her day.”

“My parents didn't...” Edward shook his head, tossing his empty cup in the garbage can. “Win. Ever.”

Oswald nodded, knowing that the subject of Edward's family was perpetually off the table for discussion. They'd both been only children; he knew that much. More than anything, he knew that he was Edward's family now, and that was sufficient. He closed the take-out containers.

“You don't have to finish those meeting minutes by the end of the day,” Oswald reassured him, leaning across the desk for a kiss before discarding their leftovers. “Tomorrow will be stressful enough.”

“I've made it clear to Mendel we won't be in on account of the interview,” Edward said, collecting the rest of the mess, tossing it out as well. “The preparations at home will take all morning,” he continued, eyeing the two remaining fortune cookies. He picked them up, handing one to Oswald.

Before opening the wrapper, Oswald shattered his against the desk. He fished out the slip of paper, completely disinterested in the rest of the shards. “ _Don't forget, you are always on our minds,_ ” he read flatly. “Well, that's not ominous. What does yours say?”

“ _The one you love is closer than you think_ ,” Edward said, tucking the slip in his pocket. “Nothing I didn't already know. I should at least go and try to clear my inbox. There was quite a lot of correspondence earlier this morning.”

Oswald walked him out, startled to breathlessness at how boldly Edward kissed him in the corridor before continuing on his way to the staircase. 

Mendel came up the stairs just as they parted, stealing a furtive glance at Edward before he passed her.

“Mayor Cobblepot,” she said, handing him the folder she'd been clutching. “I finished the copy-editing. It wasn't any trouble.” She cleared her throat, meeting Oswald's gaze. “I don't really care what they say,” she insisted, mildly anxious. “I think...well, it's sweet. I wanted you to know.”

Oswald nodded curtly, knowing was probably afraid of losing her job in the same way Searle had.

“You're quite the ambitious one,” he told her. “Much more likely to succeed than your predecessor.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, nodding, already turning away. “Good luck with the interview tomorrow.”

That evening at home, over a particularly elaborate dinner that once again contained onions—Olga's way of conveying her annoyance at their increasingly late evenings and erratic dining habits, Oswald had begun to gather—Oswald told Edward to make sure that he promoted the girl officially into Searle's role. She'd been filling in for a few days as it was, and competently, too.

“Is good you decide to do this,” said Olga, refilling their wine glasses, making it obvious that she'd been listening in. “Need more smart girls at work, not always these reckless boys with guns.”

“Thank you, Olga,” Oswald sighed, taking a swallow of the chilled white. “Your opinions on how I run my business have been duly noted. How are those classes you started this week working out?”

“I learn the word _reckless_ and use it,” she said, eyes sweeping over Edward's plate, noting the onion-shreds piled neatly to one side. “I also learn _immune system_. The onions are good for it,” she added in response to Edward's halfhearted glare. “But okay, next time I leave them out.”

“Thanks,” Edward muttered, scattering the remnants with his fork as she swept out of the room.

They spent the evening reading on the sofa, contentedly sedate in comparison to the night before. Oswald's leg had _not_ been as forgiving as he'd hoped. He ended up with his feet propped in Edward's lap and Edward's precise, capable fingers kneading away the worst of his discomfort.

“We should turn in,” he said just past eleven, yawning behind his hand. “The crew will arrive early.”

“Agreed,” Edward said, setting his book aside, shifting Oswald's heels from their perch. He got up, offering Oswald his hand, pulling him to his feet. “No shenanigans this time. You need sleep.”

“ _You're_ the one who needs it,” Oswald insisted as they made their way upstairs. “Insomniac. You roll around like nobody's business. I hardly saw you sleep back when I first stayed with you.”

“It was worse in college and when I worked at GCPD,” Edward said, loosening his tie as they made their way into the bedroom, frowning at some memory. “I used to...I'd keep myself awake,” he concluded, shaking his head. “Living with you has been good for me in more ways than one.”

“I know about the pills, Ed,” said Oswald, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, stripping out of his jacket and tie as he watched Edward undress. “There were a bunch I didn't recognize in your old medicine cabinet, but there were a few I _did_. Fish had fingers in lots of pies.” He draped his clothes aside, meeting Edward's haunted gaze. “You haven't used since leaving Arkham, have you?”

“No,” he said, fetching Oswald's clothes, shifting them over to the dressing table with his own. He came back over to the bed and sat down beside Oswald, staring at his hands. “You...would've noticed.”

“Like I said, not my first rodeo,” Oswald reassured Edward, squeezing his hand. “With me, it's—why am I even bothering to say this? If there's anything else I've inherited from Fish, it's that I drink like one,” he said, smiling in spite of himself. “ _You've_ noticed. Thanks for not being obnoxious about it, because heaven knows you're obnoxious about plenty of other things.”

Edward smiled for the first time since dinner, bringing Oswald's hand up so he could kiss it.

“And now we've both got a cigarette problem, so I'm not sure where that leaves us,” he said.

“What's life without a few vices,” replied Oswald, patting the pillows. “Bedtime, my love.”

Curled up in the dark around a fitfully drowsing Edward, Oswald didn't find rest for a long while. The precious weight of what he held, the simultaneous fragility of it—he wondered how Edward had so defiantly survived an existence that, to him, frequently made little to no sense.

 _The same way you survived, idiot,_ he told himself, kissing the top of Edward's head. _Cleverness, persistence, and more than a bit of dumb luck. Looking out for someone other than yourself for once has made you wiser; can you not see it? For the love of God, don't fuck this up._

Edward stirred in his sleep, mumbling something indistinct, and clung to Oswald all the tighter.

 _I'll give you the whole world_ , Oswald thought, closing his eyes. _All of Gotham. Oh, that and more._

Over breakfast, Oswald couldn't help but notice that Edward was doing a better job of keeping Oswald's jitters in check than _he_ was. Edward anticipated the need for everything from orange juice to painkillers; he had Oswald's lapel pins at the ready even when Oswald had forgotten them.

“Don't answer anything in more detail than you're willing to give,” Edward said, placing the pieces of flare with ceremony. They had half an hour until Hearst and her crew would arrive. “And, not that I'm any expert on this,” he said self-deprecatingly, “make sure you remember to breathe.”

“Make sure _you_ stand where I can see you,” Oswald said, admiring the metallic pattern on Edward's tie. It almost resembled scales. He ran his fingertip over Edward's tie pin, a ritual. “That's all the reminder I need.”

Margaret Hearst and her camera crew arrived ten minutes early. Oswald and Edward stood poised at the foot of the staircase while Olga opened the door, taking stock of the journalist as she swept in with all the purpose of an invading general. Her purple floral-print chiffon blouse and dangling gold chains gave off an air of easy authority. She looked Oswald up and down, ignoring Edward.

“Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” she said. “You’ve toned down your usual…flamboyance, I see.” Only then did she give Edward an appraising glance, lips pursed. “You, on the other hand—no quarter.”

“I’m not the one who’ll be on camera, Ms. Hearst,” he said. “But I’m easy to spot should you need me.”

“Well, there’s no delaying the inevitable,” Hearst sniffed, stepping to one side as her crew began to bustle in with their equipment. “I take it we’ll be setting up over there in front of the hearth?”

“Yes, of course,” said Oswald, with as much graciousness as he could muster. “Tell them to move things around however they wish. “Ed, would you be so kind as to oversee the proceedings?”

“With pleasure,” Edward said, leaving Oswald with a touch to the arm, leaving him alone with Hearst.

“I admit I hadn’t imagined what an atmospheric venue this would be,” Hearst allowed. “It will suit.”

“My father was a man of exquisite taste,” Oswald told her, beckoning her past the table and its picture frames. “Would you like a quick tour? Nothing upstairs, of course. Time constraints, my leg—”

“Of course,” Hearst agreed coolly, following him without hesitation. “Nothing behind closed doors.”

They spoke little as Oswald led her from room to room, although he couldn’t help but notice how thoroughly her eyes seemed to take in everything before her. She examined photographs, portraits, and artwork with scrutiny equal to that which she reserved for human subjects. Oswald wondered if he’d made a mistake in giving her visual access to a family history that was murky even to him.

Edward found them in the kitchen with Olga, where Hearst was trying unsuccessfully to get her to talk.

“And he’s been gracious?” Hearst continued. “How very heartening. You enjoy working here?”

“I take care of Mr. Kapelput and his people,” she insisted, busy scrubbing the interior of the sink. “I work here as long as he need me,” she said, pausing, giving Hearst a sour look. “Edward is waiting.”

“Hello, Ed,” said Oswald, relieved to approach him. “Any news from the front lines? Time to start?”

“Yes,” Edward confirmed, frowning at Hearst as she breezed past them without waiting to be escorted.

“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” Oswald whispered, staying Edward with a hand on his wrist. “Do I look all right?” he asked as Edward adjusted his pocket square. “Is the tie too much?”

“Magenta and teal complement your eyes as much as the purple, and the floral pattern was an accidentally brilliant call given what Hearst is wearing,” Edward said. He squinted at Oswald’s tie as if he’d never given the pattern proper consideration. “Those pointed petals look like _Solanum dulcamara_ blossoms. Bittersweet,” he clarified. “Poisonous vine in the nightshade family.”

“I know about bittersweet,” Oswald said. “My mother told me to look out for the purple flowers and _never_ to eat the red berries. Come, let’s get out there before they think that I’m stalling.”

Hearst’s team had done a thorough job of rendering Oswald’s sitting room virtually unrecognizable, what with all the cords and cameras and screens. They’d taken two of the high-backed side chairs and set them up facing each other; cameras were trained on them from several angles.

Hearst, already seated in one of the chairs, beckoned to Oswald. “Your audience awaits,” she said.

Oswald nodded to Edward, taking the seat across from her. He followed Edward’s progress around Hearst and the camera crew, satisfied with the spot he chose—off to one side, but well within Oswald’s line of sight. The harsh glare of the lights caught on the threads of his suit, glittering.

 _I love you_ , he wanted to say, settling for a tight smile. _You’re the only reason I’m here_.

One of Hearst’s tech crew approached Oswald, bearing a microphone. When the man attempted to affix it to Oswald’s lapel, Oswald snatched the piece of equipment from him and clipped it himself.

Hearst squared her shoulders and sat back as another tech equipped her and stepped deferentially aside.

The room fell silent, and one of the camera operators spoke. “And we’re live in three, two…”

There was a deafening click as one of the non-digital camera reels began to spin, and Edward flinched.

Oswald smiled his way primly through Hearst’s banal introduction on the audience’s behalf. The brief overview she gave of his rise to power was broad-strokes, nothing to cringe about. Maybe he was safe.

“Mayor Cobblepot,” she said, finally addressing him directly, “as Gotham is enjoying an historic spike in job-growth and prosperity, it is also going through one of the safest periods in its history. And I'm sure everyone is wondering, how did he do it?”

Oswald took a sip of the water Olga had unobtrusively brought out to set on the table beside him. 

“Well, that’s no secret,” he began, remembering every trick with regard to charm that his mother and Fish had ever impressed upon him. “As the good citizens of Gotham are aware, this city has been plagued with the corruption of its ruling families and so-called _elected_ government officials since time out of mind. I started with a vision appealing directly to the people I serve, and I may have been the first candidate in this city’s history to run an entirely clean election. Transparency, Miss Hearst. Transparency, plain and simple. It’s crucial to convey that trust is a two-way street.”

Hearst nodded as if impressed, lips bowed and eyebrows raised. “There were allegations that Mr. Nygma, your chief of staff, routed out some bribes that had been placed by a man no longer in your employ,” she said. “Is this half-whispered rumor correct, or is it groundless?”

Edward nodded almost imperceptibly, the slight crinkling of his eyes an indicator of approval.

“I wish I could tell you that it was, but that is, in fact, the truth,” said Oswald, heartbeat quickening, deciding that perhaps he ought to take his own advice and Edward’s to boot. “I was furious.”

“How fortunate, that you have such a conscientious and trustworthy man at your side,” Hearst said. “We’ll come back to that. For any of our viewers who may just be turning in, we’re live with an exclusive from Mayor Oswald Cobblepot. So,” she continued, “from humble errand-boy to kitchen worker to the so-called King of Gotham, it is said that many died so you could rise.”

Oswald felt his heart stop, and Edward, eyes wide, mouthed what looked a lot like _oh dear_.

“Oh,” Oswald demurred, waving his hand, “an exaggeration! People _love_ to invent scandal.”

Urgently gesturing, Edward brought one up to cover his mouth and tapped the other against his thigh.

“But it was murder that sent you to Arkham, a prison for the criminally insane,” Hearst prompted.

Oswald felt anger flare in his chest, merciless and sudden. “I rescued this city from the madman Theo Galavan,” he said reproachfully, nonetheless relieved to see that Edward had uncovered his mouth and was nodding again. “Some call it murder; others, a public service.”

“After your controversial release from prison, you met your father, Elijah Van Dahl, a man whose identity your mother kept from you,” said Hearst, with false compassion. “It must have been very upsetting.”

“Yes,” Oswald agreed, tight-lipped. He’d let her believe she’d wounded him by mentioning it—and, to an extent, she had. For as briefly as he’d known his father, the man _had_ made an impact.

“He _also_ died under suspicious circumstances,” Hearst stated, narrowing her eyes for effect, “his wife and step-children disappearing soon after.”

Edward’s eyes had gone wide again, and he’d folded his hands in front of him, helplessly tense.

 _She’s hurting you_ , Oswald thought, his fury incandescent, _and she knows exactly what she’s doing. This is vengeance for the venue-change as much as it’s taking a stab at me._

“With all due respect, Miss Hearst—as you just acknowledged yourself, this is a sensitive and upsetting subject,” said Oswald, not hesitating to scold her. “I object to the turn your inquiry is taking.”

Hearst shrugged, as if she were merely a servant to the script. “Why?” she countered. “Is it because there's substance to the rumors that you had them killed to inherit your father's will?”

Edward’s expression had taken a shift. Eyes narrowed, chin tipped low, he looked murderous.

“ _That_ is as preposterous as everything else you're implying,” Oswald insisted, drawing strength from Edward’s demeanor. “I have excellent reason to suspect that my father was murdered by none other than my stepmother herself. She'd been tampering with his heart medication. Little wonder she and her conniving brood skipped town before I could find hard evidence and point the finger. If not for the support of Mr. Edward Nygma—my chief of staff and _dearest_ friend for some time now—I doubt I would have weathered the loss so well.”

The shift in Hearst’s gears was as palpable as each click and whirr of the cameras. She glanced directly into the one nearest to her, as if appealing to the audience for support in what she was about to say.

“We said we’d come back to your chief of staff,” she said, hand poised at her chin, “so this seems like as fitting a time as any. “Is it true that Mr. Nygma, too, did time in Arkham for murder?”

Oswald watched as Edward’s expression tipped from murderous into something he had _never_ seen before, not even the night before in the warehouse. He swallowed, glancing at Hearst, steeling himself as soundly as he could. _For Edward_ , he thought. _This is no longer about you_.

“It’s an experience that Edward and I have in common,” Oswald said icily, “and one that neither of us cares to repeat. We were legally discharged after our treatment, which goes to show you that many aspects of this city’s legal and healthcare systems are working just as they should.”

“Edward,” Hearst echoed, smiling benignly. “Is it true you’ve known each other for around two years now, the origins of which meeting seem to trace back to your frequent… _visits_ to GCPD?”

Edward had folded his arms across his chest, his fingers clawing into his elbows in order to restrain whatever it was that Oswald had glimpsed. His eyes, at least, looked expressive again.

“Yes,” Oswald said, resolved not to hold back no matter where her inquiries might lead. If they were an open secret, then words held no terror. They hadn’t before the sanctimonious judgment of Jim Gordon, and they weren’t about to start. “We were roommates before we went to Arkham.”

“From some recent press by Gotham’s own Valerie Vale, I’ve come to understand that a former member of city hall staff had concerns about Mr. Nygma’s punctuality and work-ethic, as well as yours,” Hearst went on, and there, _there_ was the crux of everything. “I was also contacted yesterday by yet _another_ member of staff who’d been let go. Can you speak to this?”

“Ed has already spoken to this—quite eloquently, and within your earshot,” Oswald retorted, too irate with the insufferable woman in front of him to focus anywhere else. “My mobility issues often make getting to the office an ordeal, and my chief of staff sees to it that I arrive as soon as possible on any given day. Miss Hearst, I’m beginning to question your grasp of disability rights in the workplace.”

“Then it _is_ true that Mr. Nygma— _Ed_ , if you prefer—resides with you right here?”

Edward looked as if he hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as _blinked_ , save for the hand that had flown back up to cover his mouth. His eyes were fixed on Oswald, luminous and imploring.

“Not that it’s any business of yours what we are to each other, but yes, he does,” Oswald snapped curtly. “If you can’t perceive what the rest of this city accepts and can _see_ as plain as the nose on your face, then you don’t deserve your reputation!”

For the first time, Hearst was incensed. “The people of Gotham and America want to know the truth!”

“To _hell_ with the people!” Oswald seethed, unclipping his microphone, tossing it disdainfully in her direction. “Miss Hearst, thank you very much for your time, but this interview is over.”

“I'll say,” said Hearst, her composure something resembling rattled. “Thank _you_ , Mr. Mayor,” she said, as the camera operators signaled for a close. “Godspeed, Gotham, and good day.”

In the interminable seconds of silence that followed, several things happened in such rapid succession that Oswald, frozen with elation and panic in equal measure, couldn’t keep track. Hearst ordered her tech to collect the microphone, shouting for the rest of the crew to pack up.

Through the chaos, Edward raced to him, fingers frantic till they found purchase at Oswald’s shoulders.

“My dearest Ed,” said Oswald, shakily taking hold of Edward’s forearms. “While I don’t doubt that I’ve done right by us, I cannot say the same for the rest of the city. This is…catastrophic.”

“It's all right,” Edward replied. “You love Gotham, but you love me more. _That's_ flattering.”

“I do indeed,” Oswald sighed, the cacophony of the room fading to inconsequence as he pulled Edward down into a fierce, sense-enveloping kiss. “And if these morons want to stare, _let_ them.”

As they drew apart, Edward was as grinning and giddy as he’d been the night before. “I think you need a drink,” he said calmly, catching Olga’s eye as she wandered into the room. “Can you make sure that these…riff-raff take every last piece of their clutter?” he asked her. “See them out.”

“Is under control, Edward,” she reassured him, glaring at Hearst, who stood to one side on her phone.

“Thank you, Olga,” Edward said, making sure he had Hearst’s attention before giving Oswald a brief kiss. “Just stay put,” he said. “I won’t be a moment. Whiskey, brandy, or gin?”

“Whiskey for me,” Oswald sighed, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, refusing to meet Hearst’s parting gaze. He’d be happy if he never set eyes on the despicable harpy again.

Edward returned with two half-filled tumblers and a gift-bag in hand. He set them aside on the table next to Oswald, taking the opportunity to pull Hearst’s chair forward so that he and Oswald could sit knee to knee. He gestured for Oswald hand him both the bag and one of the tumblers.

“Cheers,” Edward said grimly, raising his glass as Oswald took up his own. “To…authenticity.”

“I won’t argue with you,” said Oswald, drinking deeply, enjoying the burn. “Cheers to that.”

Edward balanced his glass perilously on the arm of the chair, taking one handle of the gift-bag in hand. He reached inside, drawing out a long, flat parcel wrapped in familiar black-and-gold dotted paper.

“I picked this up imagining it would be a celebratory gift, but now it's an apology,” he said softly.

“What do you mean?” demanded Oswald, perplexed, touched beyond words as he accepted the gold-ribboned parcel from Edward. “What could you _possibly_ have to be sorry for?”

“I should never have persuaded her to do it here,” he said, startled to realize that they were alone save for Olga tidying and rearranging in the background. “I should have told her it wasn't going to happen at all. I ignored my gut instinct in favor of pleasing you. I should have—”

Having torn into the wrappings, Oswald gasped as the paper fell away. The lid dislodged beneath his touch. He nested the box into it, fingering the silver-banded ebony cigarette holder with reverence.

“Oh, _Ed_ ,” he murmured, removing it from the cotton. “It's exquisite. When did you—”

“Yesterday,” said Edward, pleased with himself. “I arranged the particulars between meetings and picked it up before getting us lunch. I could only find one shop in the city who’d do custom engraving on short notice.” He pointed to the silver band, tapping something Oswald hadn’t noticed.

Oswald turned the holder, squinting at the minute, flawless facsimile of his handkerchiefs’ embroidery.

“Who needs city hall,” Edward asked, grinning at Oswald, “when we've got this city's _heart_?”

“You’re a marvel, my love,” Oswald said, perching the holder between his teeth. He reached into his jacket for the nearly finished pack of Dunhills, offering Edward first pick. “Who indeed?”


	17. Reminiscence

Edward could count on one hand the number of times he'd awakened with a hangover. He could already tell—taking stock of himself with eyes closed and Oswald burrowed into him still as naked as they'd both been when they finally passed out—that he'd have to add to the tally.

He blinked muzzily at the ceiling, attempting to move without disturbing Oswald more than he had to, but the dull groan muffled against his shoulder suggested that he'd failed already.

“Don't move,” Edward said, dizzy and vaguely nauseous as he began to sit up, sliding his arm from beneath Oswald. “You're in worse condition than I am, I can already tell,” he said, settling a bleary-eyed Oswald carefully against the pillow. “I'll get you some water.”

Oswald just groaned again, rolling onto his stomach, hiding his face. “Trying not to throw up.”

“Oh dear,” Edward sighed, stroking Oswald's hair, slipping out of bed onto uncertain footing. 

He snagged his dressing gown off the floor, wobbling his way to the bathroom door against the treacherous combination of dehydration and his glasses still being on the nightstand. He pissed, flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and blinked at his reflection over the sink. Once, he would have been horrified to see his hair such a fright, but knowing Oswald's merciless fingers were invariably the cause of the mess cheered him.

“Here,” Edward said, filling both glasses he found next to their toothbrushes. “Water all around.” He gulped down his own on the way back to bed, abandoning his empty glass on the nightstand before lowering himself onto the mattress next to Oswald, who hadn't changed position. “Turn on your side,” he instructed, prying Oswald up enough to get the glass to his lips.

Oswald choked on the first two sips, but he held them down, offering Edward a grim smile.

“Sometimes I wish I could forget what happens while I drink, _but_ ,” he said, swallowing the rest while it seemed like his stomach was going to let him, “given what we did for most of the rest of yesterday, I'm _so_ glad that alcohol-induced amnesia isn't in my programming.”

Roughly ten seconds later, Edward found himself scrambling for the plastic bag out of the bedside trash can while Oswald started to heave into the glass. He got the bag in place just barely in the nick of time, rubbing Oswald's back while he retched into it.

“You might be worse than that one time back at my place,” he said thinly, glad that this was not outside his realm of experience—even if it was only the second instance. “You drank twice as much as I did yesterday, and I had too much to begin with. Someone your size shouldn't be able to drink me under the table and live to tell the tale.”

“I've had a lot more practice than you've had,” Oswald gasped, spitting another mouthful of bile.

“More water,” Edward said, leaving the bag with Oswald, rushing back to the bathroom to rinse out Oswald's glass and refill it. He returned to find that Oswald had dropped the bag onto the floor and rolled away so that his back was to Edward, as if ashamed. “Here,” he murmured, setting a hand on Oswald's shoulder. “It happens to the best of us.”

“I don't see it happening to _you_ ,” said Oswald, petulantly, sitting up just long enough to drink half the second glass before pushing it away. “You mixed as many things as I did.”

Edward set the glass aside, slipping a hand under the covers so he could rub Oswald's stomach.

“Just rest,” he said. “I'll go downstairs and make some toast. Olga's probably here already.”

“Maybe some eggs while you're at it,” said Oswald, even if he didn't sound thrilled at the prospect of food. “My mother swore by protein on a bad morning-after. The greasier, the better.”

Edward dipped down to kiss Oswald's damp forehead, stroking his cheek. “Coming right up.”

Olga was, indeed, already in the kitchen. She'd set out their tea service and a loaf of bread on the counter, and she was pulling a carton of eggs from the refrigerator as Edward entered.

“Maybe you _can_ read minds,” he said, returning her expectant gaze from where he'd paused in the doorway. “Oswald's got a hangover a mile wide. I said I'd make toast and eggs.”

Exasperated, Olga brandished the carton in Edward's face as he approached. “Yes, I see how much you both drink yesterday,” she told him. “Those bottles on the floor. For shame.”

Edward rubbed the side of his neck. “You make the toast while I make the eggs?” he offered.

They fell into a startlingly easy routine alongside each other at the counter, moving and repositioning food items and appliances until they were satisfied. Edward set a skillet on the stove, and then brought a bowl down from the cupboard.

“Maybe French toast is the ticket,” he said. “Syrup would be too much. Powdered sugar?”

Olga nodded, pulling four slices of bread out of the bag. “Heavy food can work for hangover.”

“Swell,” Edward said, about to reach for the whisk just as Olga grabbed it and handed it to him.

“Edward, let us not have secrets,” she said, handing him eggs next. “I think ill of you at first.”

“You thought badly of me?” Edward echoed, using the shells to sift out the yolks as he cracked whites into the bowl, instinctively sorting out her syntax. “Why? You hardly knew me.” 

“Because life teaches me to be suspicious of strangers. He try to gold-dig poor, lonely Mr. Kapelput, I tell myself,” she said, passing Edward the whisk. “Oswald could do better.” She eyed his handiwork, fetching another bowl for the yolk-filled shell remnants he’d set on the counter. “Why do you never use them?” she asked, plucking them up one by one.

“I don’t like yolks in isolation from use in baked goods or other foods in which it’s difficult for me to detect them,” Edward admitted, scrambling the whites. “They’re also bad for your cholesterol. Have you ever seen a clogged artery up close?” He whistled. “Not pretty.”

“See, now I know you care for him,” Olga said with feeling, hand clutched to her breast as she rummaged in the cupboard for something. “You are even looking after his health.”

“Oswald’s father had heart problems,” replied Edward, earnestly, surprised when Olga set a bottle of vanilla extract beside him. “It’s not difficult to extrapolate that he’s at high risk.”

“You never make French toast?” Olga asked slyly. “This go in the eggs. A little sugar, too.”

Edward set down the whisk, opened the bottle, and sniffed it. “Real,” he said. “Not imitation.”

“No, no, I do not think you are faking,” said Olga, firmly, taking the bottle away from him and, much to his alarm, dumping a liberal amount into the egg whites. “You defend him yesterday from that…that _suka_ , Hearst. You comfort him, too. Keep him…happy.”

“I was referring to the vanilla extract,” Edward said with deliberation, “but yes. I don’t just care about him, Olga. I love him very much, and I…” He thought about all that Olga had seen and done, realizing he had no reason to hold back. “I would kill to keep him safe and smiling.”

“He has killed to keep _you_ safe,” Olga said, her tone unreadable. “Many times already.”

“I know,” Edward said, laughing, unable to keep his sudden giddiness from bubbling over as he added the sugar Olga had measured out for him to the egg whites. “Isn’t it sweet?”

“It is dangerous games Oswald plays,” Olga replied brusquely, frowning at him. “I wish he would become legitimate businessman, maybe invest fortune in something like computers.”

“Oswald would never do that,” Edward said, whisking the egg concoction some more after adding pinches of salt and pepper. “Not the tech industry. He likes entertainment too much, and he knows how to show people a great time. The Sirens is doing well, but the club did better under Oswald’s proprietorship once he’d resolved supply problems and hit his stride with it.”

“Better decorations when he had it,” Olga replied. “One time, I go—before I even know him apart from reading newspaper. Classy place with purple umbrella lights, _very_ stylish. He was always at bar or at table, watching. He talk to me while I drink, even a little Russian. Smile and treat me nice, not like other young men. I hand him card in case he need cleaner. Like they say, you never know. Take chance. Months later, he calls.”

“Fate has a funny way of catching up with us,” said Edward, holding out the bowl for her inspection. “Just look where we are now,” he added cheerfully. “Right where we should be.”

Olga nodded. “Is ready for bread to dip,” she said, hesitantly meeting Edward’s eyes. “What happened yesterday is not good. I watch recording last night. The people will get mad.”

Edward nodded, grimacing as he dipped a slice of bread into the egg white, making sure he coated both sides. “Damage control will all be down to that disparaging remark about the public,” he agreed, watching as Olga fetched a stick of butter from the refrigerator and cut a slice of it into the heated skillet. “It's not as if Gotham didn't know about us. We haven't been subtle.”

“Would shock you, what some people refuse to see in front of nose,” replied Olga, watching Edward place the piece of bread in the sizzling skillet before he dipped another. “Those high society people who see you together at Founders' Dinner and engagement party, _they_ do not care. They know that power, it grants immunity. They look at dirt on each other and ignore it, see same when they look at you and Oswald. But average person on street? Different game.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this kind of game,” said Edward, hastily washing his hands. “Would you take over, um...” He gestured at the egg whites and bread. “I'll set up the rest of the tray. I'll even take it upstairs. You won't have to do the hard part.”

“Family ties to Russian mob,” said Olga, shrugging as she took over at the skillet. “Is no fuss.”

Edward had all but gotten the juice, tea, plates, and silverware ready when the doorbell rang.

Olga cast him a glance over her shoulder as she finished the French toast, eyebrows raised.

“I'll get it,” Edward reassured her, wiping off his hands. “Take the tray upstairs and leave it outside the door; Oswald isn't even dressed. I'll take it in when I finish with our guest.”

“Take gun from drawer in table,” Olga advised. “Put in your pocket. I do not like timing.”

Edward nodded, racing out of the kitchen, fetching Oswald's spare firearm from the drawer where bills and other oddments tended to accrue. He kept one hand on the gun in his pocket as he approached the front door with his heart in his throat, but opening it felt anticlimactic.

“Good morning, Mr. Nygma,” said Lucius Fox, holding up a heavy white file-box that Edward thought he recognized. “I'm not in the habit of making house calls, but there's some action going down at the precinct that I didn't want to get involved in past consulting. May I come in?”

“Of course,” said Edward, stepping back, withdrawing his hand from his pocket. “What a pleasant surprise,” he added guardedly. “My apologies, but Mayor Cobblepot is indisposed.”

“I'm not here to see the mayor,” said Fox, all razor-sharp focus. “I'm here to see a man about a box, and, as you might've guessed—you're the man, and this is the box. Know what this is?”

Edward pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, leaning forward to peer at the caps-lock Sharpie handwriting across the top of the box. Just as he'd suspected, it was his own.

“I was wondering what had become of these,” he said, struggling to suppress his sudden nervousness, wresting the box out of Fox's grasp with a grunt. “Personal files, nothing of note.”

“You'll forgive me for taking a look, given anything pertaining to you is, at this stage, suspect,” said Fox, folding his unburdened arms across his chest. “As near as I can tell, you've got every newspaper clipping on Penguin in there that ever _existed_ between the time he hit the scene and your departure from GCPD,” he continued. “Plus a bunch of notes that read like riddles.”

“That's because they are,” said Edward, tartly, setting the box aside on the lower stairs before he turned to face Fox with displeasure. “Consider it a form of encryption against prying eyes.”

Fox shrugged. “I solved most of them. You have an unusual approach to emotional expression, Mr. Nygma. It struck...something of a chord, if I'm completely honest. Have you been interested in riddles since you were a child?”

Edward opened his mouth and shut it again. He didn't want sympathy from this particular devil.

“You already know the answer to that, seeing as you've just revealed to me that many of our social experiences overlap,” he said, bestowing a disdainful smile on Fox. “I think you should go.”

Fox sighed, rubbing is jaw with his knuckle, an agitated gesture.

“I think you're right,” he agreed, stepping back outside. “The box isn't the only reason I came. There's a message for Penguin from Detective Gordon. I'm sure I can trust you to convey it, given you're...” He looked Edward up and down as so many others had done in the span of the past two weeks, but the difference was that his gaze held, in lieu of judgment, faint admiration. “Attached.”

“With such accuracy that you might as well have handed me a recording,” Edward told him.

“Those reports of corpses wandering out of the morgue and ending up back on the slab in our M.E.'s office are no laughing matter,” said Fox. “It's the truth. There's reason to believe some nut-job is practicing for purposes of thawing cryogenically frozen corpses that were shunted from Indian Hill into long-term storage. Thawing and _reviving_ them. We've only just gotten past the Tetch virus, yet we might be on the brink of another crisis. Jim believes it would behoove the mayor to lie low given...both sets of circumstances.”

“Fallout from the Hearst interview remains to be seen,” said Edward, starting to close the door on him. “Don't be too quick to judge. It might shake out better than you think.”

“Mr. Nygma,” laughed Fox, backpedaling into the driveway. “I'm _nobody_ to judge.” He bent and picked up the plastic-bagged morning newspaper, tossing it at Edward so quickly that he scarcely had time to catch it against his chest. “But today's _Gazette_ headline has already sounded off.”

“Thank you,” Edward said with derision, waving curtly as he slammed the door. “Now get out.”

Olga came into the entryway, overladen breakfast tray in hand. “Who was visitor? Paper boy?”

“Special delivery from GCPD,” said Edward, slapping the paper down on the side table full of photographs, determined not to ruin Oswald's morning with it. “The paper was incidental.”

“I do not like this,” Olga muttered under her breath. “So somebody bring mysterious box?”

“Actually, it's some possessions I left behind at the precinct,” Edward said, following her upstairs with the box in tow as she climbed ahead of him with the tray. “This was a personal call.”

“I leave you to it,” Olga sighed, setting the tray down on the floor as they paused before the bedroom door. “Antacids are in bathroom cupboard if Oswald needs them.”

Belatedly, Edward was struck by the profoundness of Olga's care. He watched her retreat down the stairs, and then, overwhelmed by the words crowding in his throat, called after her.

“Olga, both your—your honesty and circumspection mean a great deal to me!” he managed.

She peered up at him from the landing, her only response a courteous nod before she departed.

Meanwhile, from within the bedroom, a strikingly familiar sound drew Edward's attention. Heavy file box still clutched to his middle, Edward fumbled the doorknob open and stumbled his way over to the bed, where Oswald—humming _Murder, He Says_ —was hunched miserably.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Edward said, setting the box next to the nightstand. He plucked up the plastic bag and put it back in the trash can before it could leak all over the place.

Oswald stopped humming and peered out from under the covers, dazedly squinting up as Edward loomed over him. “ _Déjà vu_ ,” he remarked. “Isn't that what you said when I...”

“First woke up back at my place, after I rescued you?” said Edward, rising again so that he could fetch the tray from the hallway and bring it over for Oswald's inspection. “Indeed it was.”

“As long as I'm not about to get another syringe in the neck, I don't care,” said Oswald, struggling to sit up, situating himself pale and peaked up against the pillows. “French toast?”

“Toast and eggs all in one,” Edward explained, planting the tray across Oswald's lap. “Olga and I thought it's just what the doctor ordered. All that grease'll give your stomach something to—”

Oswald took up a fork. He claimed the leftmost of the two plates, ravenous, eyes darting aside.

“What's in the box?” he asked, mouth already full. “It looks like one of your GCPD specials.”

“My replacement, Lucius Fox, dropped this off while Olga and I were making breakfast,” Edward said, ignoring his hunger in favor of sliding off the bed to settle next to the box on the floor. He tugged off the lid, carefully removing a handful of clippings to hold up for Oswald's benefit. “It's the files I kept on you,” he said, replacing them after a glance through. “ _Memories_.”

“I can't help but think Jim would have used such a delivery as an excuse,” Oswald muttered.

“Oh, he absolutely did,” said Edward, scrambling back onto the bed, almost sloshing Oswald's orange juice all over them in his haste. “Fox said that Jim believes you should lie low in light of both the oncoming press storm and the, ah, walking corpses not being an unfounded rumor.”

“Fascinating,” Oswald said slowly, holding out a bite of toast for Edward. “Tell me more.”

“It seems that the Indian Hill facility was freezing deceased subjects in hopes of eventually reviving them,” Edward said, accepting the bite with hesitation, relieved when the taste and texture both agreed with him. “After the facility was closed down, a number of those remains were sent to a storage facility somewhere else, and somebody's been practicing on garden-variety corpses from the morgue until such time as they can work up to the main event with...well, you'd call them monsters.”

“I'd almost rather talk about the media shit-storm,” Oswald sighed, reaching over to loosen Edward's dressing gown as he handed him a cup of tea. He squinted as the garment slipped off Edward's shoulder, exposing the scar on Edward's right bicep. “Why did I never notice that before?” he asked, attempting to brush his fingertips across it while Edward took a sip of Earl Grey. “When did that happen? You never mentioned—”

“In Jerome's infamous assault on the GCPD,” Edward explained. “A stray bullet grazed my arm.”

“So you had that by the time I was a convalescent in your care,” Oswald sighed. “Remarkable.”

Edward nodded, chewing his lip. “I don't have as many... _individual_ scars as you, but I'd be glad to give you a guided tour sometime,” he said, removing the second untouched plate from the tray so he could eat without disturbing Oswald's progress. “While we're on the subject, however, can I...” He took another swallow of tea for courage. “Can I say how much that time meant to me?”

“Even the answer to the first riddle you gave me was _memory_ ,” said Oswald, with a hint of fond sarcasm, “so the topic is nothing if not appropriate. It means the world to me, too, Ed.”

“My deplorable chopstick percussion notwithstanding?” Edward asked, breaking into a grin. “You were...incredibly on-edge for the first few days,” he recalled, “but I was thrilled to have you.”

“Ed, I held your own knife to your neck,” Oswald reminded him tersely. “Not my finest moment.”

“I disagree,” Edward said, his mouth full of French toast. “Our conversation at that juncture established it as one of your finest. And, on a personal note, one of your most fetching besides.”

“I was a split-second from slitting your throat,” said Oswald, bluntly incredulous, “and you were thinking about how attractive you found me?”

“After Max and Butch, is it honestly that much of a surprise?” Edward asked, shrugging, waving at the open box next to the nightstand. “Violence is a good look on you. It always has been, at least from what I could see in the papers before we met.” He thought about their conversation in that moment, of Oswald's grief for his mother and the revelation Edward had teased from it.

“What's wrong?” Oswald asked, setting a hand on Edward's knee. “Are _you_ going to be sick?”

“No, I...” Edward shook his head in disgust, setting down his fork. “I'm having a disagreement with myself. I once told you that a man without weakness in the form of love was a free man, but now...” He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his index fingers to his temples, shutting out the chorus of insidious whispers. “ _You're dangerous to anyone but each other_ ,” he stammered. “That's what...in the wine shop, I thought I heard Kristen say...” He shook himself, opening his eyes, turning to focus on Oswald, whose grip on Edward's knee had turned painful. “She meant—rather, my _subconscious_ meant—the two of us, of course, but now I...”

While Edward struggled for breath, too upset to reconcile his as-yet formless conclusion on the subject, Oswald let go of Edward's knee and shifted the tray aside so he could scoot closer.

“I understand,” Oswald said, taking hold of Edward's wrists, drawing both hands up to his lips. “You're concerned that we're in violation of both principles. Now that we're together, each of us is by default the other's Achilles heel. And, following on from that logic, we might each be the most dangerous thing in the world to the other. Is that the gist?”

Edward nodded miserably, permitting Oswald to set his plate on the nightstand and fold him in a tight embrace. He buried his nose in Oswald's messy hair, letting the pressure ground him.

“I love you,” said Oswald, “and, regardless of what you said to me back then, I am _not_ ashamed. I've realized I'd die before I let anyone hurt you, just like I was prepared to die for my mother.”

“If it's all the same, neither am I,” Edward confessed, relieved. “I'd rather die _with_ you.”

“It's settled, then,” Oswald said. He pressed a kiss into the hollow of Edward's throat, perhaps as penance for invoking the memory of knife-point. “We're not at odds with ourselves, and you can redo those emotional calculations in your head so that everything balances again.”

Edward swayed where he sat, upright only because Oswald was holding him. “I might be sick.”

In spite of his own condition, Oswald got Edward to the bathroom in record time, holding himself up on the towel-rack with one hand and rubbing Edward's back with the other. Edward was furious that fully two of his five hangovers to date now involved retching into a toilet, but at least one of those two involved sympathetic assistance from someone he loved.

Oswald sat with him on the floor for a while, his back to the wall while Edward sprawled pathetically against him. Cool tiles, at least, were as soothing as everyone made them out to be.

Once it was clear that neither one of them was going to experience a relapse, Oswald pulled them both to their feet and, no-nonsense, stripped Edward down for a shower. They spent most of _that_ , too, crowded together on the floor surrounded by bottles and suds. Edward dozed off against the steam-slick wall while hot water pelted them and Oswald scrubbed at his arms.

“Why don't you _hello, sleepyhead_ yourself,” Oswald suggested, tapping Edward's cheek lightly to wake him, “and get us out of here? _My_ head's in worse shape than my leg.”

“Okie-doke,” Edward yawned, struggling to his feet before tugging Oswald up after him. He turned off the water and, utterly overwhelmed for the third time that morning, wrapped Oswald in his arms without restraint. Wet, slippery. _Close_. “I'm bad with, I—Oswald, I love—”

“Shut up,” Oswald whispered, overjoyed in spite of how sick he still looked, his freckled nose endearingly scrunched up about an inch from Edward's face. “You're a mess. And I know.”

Olga didn't look happy to see them straggling downstairs in little more than dressing gowns and slippers, but her string of curses in Russian seemed better-intentioned than usual as she went upstairs to fetch what was left of their breakfast. She set both plates in front of them on the coffee table and arranged the tea service, bringing some fresh hot water from the kitchen.

“Is almost noon, you realize,” she said, leaving them to nurse each other. “For shame.”

They got through the rest of the French toast without incident, although sipping their way through the remainder of the tea went sour soon enough. There was a commotion in the entryway in which Edward could pick out protests from Olga and interjections from Zsasz, followed by Gabriel escorting none other than a fur-clad Barbara Kean into the sitting room.

“She wouldn't go away, boss,” Gabriel insisted, waving at Barbara, who—with the newspaper Fox had given Edward earlier that morning in hand—made herself right at home by pulling one of the side chairs up alongside the coffee table. “Says she's got a matter of urgent business.”

“Then of _course_ we must see her,” said Oswald, struggling to sit up against Edward's side. He draped his arm across the back of the sofa just as he'd done in Jim's presence, only this time Edward cozied into it with shameless abandon. “Good morning, Ms. Kean. It's early for you, isn't it?”

Barbara leered at Edward as Gabriel showed himself out, removing the newspaper from its plastic sheath with ruthless efficiency. “You guys just haven't considered picking up and, I don't know, getting this out of your system on a Caribbean cruise like normal newlyweds?”

“That would require some level of normalcy,” Edward retorted, sipping his tea, unconcerned.

“Get to the point,” Oswald sneered, snagging a third-full wine glass he'd left on the coffee table the night before, drinking it down before resuming his teacup. “Provided you and the rest of my lieutenants keep your noses to the grindstone, Gotham is all the paradise we'll ever need.”

With a patronizing smile, Barbara shook out the newspaper and read from the cover story.

“Unsurprisingly, there have already been calls for the mayor's resignation,” she announced with great ceremony, primly crossing her legs. “The clearly disturbed Mayor Cobblepot capped the interview by announcing, _To hell with the people of Gotham_!”

Edward adjusted his glasses, leaning forward to peer at the headline. _MAYOR CRUMBLEPOT_ , it read, and beneath that, _TO HELL WITH THE PEOPLE OF GOTHAM_. He replayed the previous day's interview transcript in his head, instantly irked.

“That's a misquote,” he snapped. “Oswald said to hell with the _people_ , not _people of_ —”

“Ed,” Oswald warned, blearily rubbing his eyes, waving his hand at Barbara. “Please continue.”

“Neither the mayor, nor his chief of staff, Edward Nygma, were available for comment,” Barbara went on with cruel enthusiasm, “begging the question— _who_ is running Gotham?” She tossed the paper down on top of the remnants of their breakfast. “You need to fix this situation.”

“Who cares what people think of the mayor?” said Oswald, indifferently. “The city runs itself.”

 _That's not what she means_ , Edward thought, mind racing a mile a minute. _She's talking_ —

“I'm talking about your other job,” Barbara replied. “The real one. You melt down in public, hide out here? People start to smell blood in the water.”

Oswald sat forward, one hand braced on Edward's thigh, by now at full attention. “Who?”

“Tommy Bones,” said Barbara. “The East Side gangs are holding, but south of the Narrows, the docks? There's chatter. The king is dead, or soon will be. That kind of chatter. So get up, take a shower, do that disco vampire thing with your hair.” She gave Edward a critical look, as if to imply _his_ hair was beyond help. “I will call a meeting with the heads of the family, you will come, you will be your old self, and the rumors will stop.”

“Why are you helping me?” Oswald asked. “Especially after what we did to Tabitha and Butch?”

“Because people think you like me, Ozzie,” said Barbara, with cutting resentment. “And as long as they're scared of you, Tabitha and I get to keep breathing. Wouldn't you like to keep yourself and darling Eddie breathing, too? One o'clock tomorrow, my place.” She scratched the side of her nose, carelessly blowing away a loose eyelash. “Oh, yeah—before I forget? There's been an up-swing in that tacky _HA HA HA_ graffiti all over the city. Word on the street says that lame-ass Jerome cult believes he's coming back. Just between you and me, having worked with the guy?” She gave an exaggerated yawn. “ _Boring_. Can't blame Theo for offing him.”

“Thank you for your input,” Oswald scoffed. “One o'clock tomorrow. Get out of my house.”

“No worries, I get it,” Barbara said, rising. “All you wanna do is eat bagels in bed and bang for like the first few months. It's _totally_ cool.” She leaned over and _booped_ Edward on the nose as she walked past them. “But let me tell you something, baby,” she called back over her shoulder, “you're in for a rude awakening once that afterglow wears off!”

“Sometimes I wonder why I don't just kill them and take back the club,” Oswald muttered. He drew his knees up to his chest, drawing Edward's arm tightly around him. “What do you think?”

Edward shook his head. “Tempting as it sounds, I wouldn't. Barbara and Tabitha have their uses, you've said so yourself. Besides, we'd better see how the scandal shakes out before deciding whether or not a switch back into night-life hospitality is the right move.”

Oswald nodded, his head against Edward's shoulder a reassuring weight. “In moments like this, I'm _especially_ glad you're here,” he sighed. “Who knew jealousy's more powerful than intimidation?”

“I did,” said Edward, darkly, recalling the actions that very emotion had once prompted him to take. “You said we had something this afternoon, right? My head's still foggy.”

“The painter's coming in about an hour and a half to continue work on the portrait,” Oswald replied moodily, “so we'd better think getting dressed and letting Olga clear this away.”

Oswald was in poor spirits for the majority of their posing session; Edward couldn't blame him. The painkillers Edward had all but pushed on him while they were getting dressed didn't seem to be making a dent in his level of discomfort, but he refused to reschedule.

Three thirty saw Olga hustling the painter out before Oswald could lose his temper and fling another glass.

“Please,” Edward said once Olga had led the scandalized artist out of the room, helping Oswald hobble over to the sofa. “It hasn't been the best day. Just...lie down with me and rest?”

Oswald kicked out of his shoes and removed his jacket while Edward did the same. He wasted no time in stretching out, shoving at Edward's hip so he'd scoot forward and let Oswald burrow into the throw pillows, nose grazing the back padding of the sofa. 

Edward draped his jacket across the coffee table, swinging around to spoon up behind Oswald, curling his arm protectively around Oswald's middle. “We're not drinking tonight.”

Stiffening for the briefest of moments in Edward's embrace, Oswald didn't say a single word.

Some time later, Edward woke to the sensation of someone's hand—not Oswald's, too particularly forceful—tapping his shoulder with distinct urgency. He yawned and turned his head, loath to lose contact with Oswald's warm, fragrant neck ( _neroli, daffodil, iris_ ).

“Edward, I am hesitant to disturb,” Olga whispered loudly, her features pinched, “but my new phone, it is going crazy with the notifications. There is something happening, very bad.”

“Oh my,” Edward mumbled, shaking Oswald's arm. “Oswald. _Oswald_ , did you hear—”

“Ugh, _yes_ ,” Oswald sighed, rolling away from the back of the sofa, nudging Edward until he sat up so that they could perch on the cushion side by side. “Olga, please turn on the television.”

“It is hostage situation at the Channel Nine,” Olga explained as she went to turn on the set, stepping aside as the image of what looked like a man in a flesh-colored mask sitting on the edge of the counter, which was usually occupied by several news anchors, appeared onscreen.

Edward leaned forward in fascination as the man began to speak, distracted by the mess of _HA HA HA_ graffiti scrawled on the wall behind him. It was chaotic, unsettling. Even the ticker at the bottom of the screen, usually occupied by headlines and stock prices, read _hahAHaHaHaHAH_ in a disorganized, _ad infinitum_ string.

Oswald made a disdainful sound. “God knows why they believe their prank is worth televising.”

“Brothers and sisters,” said the man on the screen, “my name is Dwi—” Messily, he cleared his throat twice and appeared to regain his composure. “My name is _Jerome_. History will call tonight the Night of Awakening.”

“Well, he's got no charisma _or_ stage presence,” Edward remarked, eyes still glued to the screen in lurid fascination, “but that mask he's wearing, it almost looks like...” He watched the way it shifted when the man worked his jaw, abruptly certain. “That's human skin.”

“Garish and unnecessary,” said Oswald, but he'd gone tight-lipped and leaned slightly forward.

“The time has come to reveal ourselves,” said the man, who was very much _not_ Jerome in any respect save for his mask. “Today, Gotham will remember. The prophet told us that we're all prisoners, slaves to a city that doesn't love us, but tonight—tonight, we rise up!”

“If Gotham doesn't love you,” remarked Oswald, waving at Olga until she took a hint and sat down in one of the side chairs to watch with them, “then you're doing it wrong.”

“We're not exactly doing it right at the moment ourselves,” Edward murmured pensively.

“We are all Jerome,” continued the adamant impostor. “Each of you is Jerome. That is the truth. All of us are Jerome. We are _all_ —”

Edward watched, rapt, as GCPD stormed onto the set with guns blazing. Jim Gordon, of course, was at the head of the fray; he'd already managed to take down several of Jerome's followers by the time Harvey Bullock shouted, as disgruntled as ever, “Cut the feed!”

Olga got up as the image faded to static, clucking her tongue.

“I stay here tonight. City is not safe,” she said, exiting by way of the kitchen. “I go read books and study, good night!”

Oswald rubbed his temples, staring at the floor. “I'm glad the servants' quarters are off the back.”

“This is unbelievable,” Edward said, running through each possibility he could conceive as to why an acolyte would be so desperate as to appear on the air wearing a dead man's skin. Perhaps the attempt to reanimate Jerome had been unsuccessful; perhaps the skin was not even Jerome's.

They sat in silence for what felt like eternity, fingers entwined between them on the cushion. Edward could tell that Oswald was _itching_ for something to drink, but he wasn't about to let that happen, not when they were still hung-over. He leaned in and kissed Oswald to distract him.

Just then, the static resolved itself back into some semblance of a normal broadcast.

A blonde news anchor stood outside the Channel Nine building, the street behind her bustling with police.

“As has been reported,” she announced, “Channel Nine's van was stolen this evening. We are now getting video from the thief, which we will play in hopes it leads to his apprehension.”

“ _This_ ought to be good,” muttered Oswald, as the screen flickered to some kind of arcane place-holder for several seconds. “Remind me why we aren't allowed to drink tonight?”

Edward's eyes widened as the feed switched to a very real, very _living_ specter peering directly into the camera. “Um,” he said, boggling at the staples' ghastly precision. “ _That_.”

“Testing, testing,” Jerome rasped, tapping the camera lens. “Am I live? Am I on-air? Can you hear me? Ah, _screw it_. Let's do it. Hi. Some of you may know I died. _Uh-oh_.”

“Right,” said Oswald, distantly. “I suddenly...see the point in maintaining sobriety right now.”

“Take it from me,” Jerome prattled on, captivating in spite of his appearance, “death is...dull. But coming back? That is _something_. Leave it to dying to give you a whole new perspective on life.”

As they watched him move over to where he had a man in GCPD kit trussed up with what looked like various wires and explosive components, Oswald conceded, “He's not wrong.”

 _You and your improbable lives_ , Edward thought, tight-lipped. _A baker's dozen._

“And I would like to share that with you,” Jerome went on, turning to his captive. “Uh, officer, you look terrible. Huh, you've got...” He reached behind the man's ear, producing a lighter. “Tonight, Gotham, in the darkness—there are no rules,” he went on, producing a flame with the twitch of his thumb. “So, tonight, Gotham, do what you want. Kill who you want. _Hmmm_?”

“Something tells me,” said Oswald, flatly, “we may not be meeting with Barbara tomorrow.”

“We should've refused in the first place,” Edward pointed out. “Jim may be insufferable, but he's right about lying low. Things are bad for us, and they're about to get ten times worse for _everyone_.”

“And, when morning comes, you, too, shall be—” Jerome approached the camera and lit the fuse with theatrical flare “— _reborn_.” Off the tail-end of his mad cackling, he approached his hostage from the opposite side and said, “I don't forgive you for my face.”

The incendiary flash was so forcefully, unexpectedly immediate that Edward flinched from it, finding himself crushed close in Oswald's shaking arms as reverberations from the real-time explosion sounded in the distance.

The lights went out, leaving them alone with ghost-echo static and the howl of wind from outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can listen to the song Oswald's humming under his covers [**here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTvHKim1Pqk).


	18. Respite

If it weren't for the dull throbbing of his head, somehow still worse than his leg, Oswald's first instinct would have been to make his way outside and _listen_. He had no doubt that, in the near distance, across the shadow-haunted expanse of harbor, Gotham was indeed about to wake. The question was how many souls would ultimately take Jerome's words to heart.

“Not to be an alarmist,” said Oswald, holding Edward ever closer as the eerie silence settled around them, “but this is the exact opposite of good.”

Edward hummed, strangely calm, nodding in agreement.

“After yesterday, there are probably quite a number of people who'd like to kill us,” he said. “Jerome just gave them carte blanche.”

Oswald released him with a pat on the shoulder, fetching his cane from where it had spent most of the day propped against the arm of the sofa. He withdrew and re-sheathed the penguin-headed dagger disguised as its handle, using it to support his weight as he helped Edward to his feet.

“First things first,” he said, steeling himself with grim delight, leading Edward toward the entryway. “If the fight's coming to us—seeing as I have intimate knowledge of how easy it is to assemble a mob in this city, I figure there's a pretty high chance of that—then we should be as thoroughly armed as the lady and gentlemen outside. Thanks to you, both pistols are now upstairs, so we should fetch those before we do anything else.”

“After we do that,” said Edward, rushing to keep pace behind Oswald on the stairs, “we should go get Olga and make sure she's armed, too. She told me this morning her family has ties to the Russian mob. I'm going to guess that she knows her way around a gun better than I do.”

“It does cheer me to see the two of you getting along,” Oswald replied, barging into the bedroom with Edward still hot on his heels. He fetched his flashlight from the nightstand, using it to make his way over to the dressing table. He checked his pistol to make sure it was loaded while Edward fished around in his dressing gown and produced its match. “Excellent,” he said, shining the beam on him.

Edward tucked the gun in his belt, lingering next to the bed while Oswald checked his reflection.

“We left our jackets downstairs,” he pointed out. “But those aren't generally worn in a duel anyway.”

“This will be much, _much_ worse than a duel if it comes to it,” Oswald sighed, hobbling over to stand before Edward with cane and flashlight in one hand and his pistol in the other. “Are you ready?”

Edward didn't touch Oswald as he leaned forward into the brief, fierce kiss with reckless devotion.

“I'd follow you to the ends of the earth,” he said. “Even though I know we'll never get that far.”

Oswald turned and led the way out before Edward had the chance to notice that he'd begun to tear up.

As they descended the stairs, voices floated to meet them from the entryway. Much to Oswald's dismay, Gabriel, Vee, Zsasz, and Olga were waiting for them next to the door with a lantern.

Oswald and Edward halted side by side on the landing, both of them gaping at Oswald's shotgun, which Olga had slung over her shoulder. She cut an imposing figure in the dimness, peridot-and-diamond ring glittering. She’d decided to keep it once Edward had tired of the novelty.

“What, why you stare?” Olga asked, shrugging. “I clean entire house and know where you hide it.”

“About time, chief,” said Zsasz, his eyes flicking over Edward as if the sight of him with a gun was the best joke since Oswald had taken up with him. “I don't like our chances of getting through the night without that clown brigade making an appearance. Where do you want us?”

“You three, outside,” Oswald ordered, gesturing at Gabriel, Zsasz, and Vee, pointing toward the door. “Olga, please stay inside with me and Ed. Much though I appreciate the gesture, I don't think—”

Without a word, Olga took aim at one of the light fixtures on the far side of the room off the end of the hall, shattering its glass shade with precision. Edward swallowed, glancing wide-eyed at Oswald.

“All the _more_ reason for you to stay with us,” Oswald said—duly impressed, if mildly irritated that he'd need to repair the damage. “Just don't waste any more shells, how about that?”

“Boss,” said Vee, holding the door open for Gabe and Zsasz as they filed out. “Got this covered?”

Oswald tucked the pistol into his jacket, beckoning for Edward and Olga to follow him over to the dining table. “Yes, Ms. Aragon,” he reassured her, replying with a nod as she ducked out. “Ed, lock the door,” he said, continuing on his way to his habitual seat at the head of the table.

Edward threw the deadbolt, joining Oswald and Olga seconds later, taking the seat directly across from Olga at Oswald's left hand.

“This isn't necessarily the kind of party your mother was talking about,” he said dryly, “but there's bound to be entertainment. What should we do?”

Oswald shrugged, rummaging through the drawer in front of him until he came up with a deck of cards.

“Euchre? Rummy? Poker? Go Fish?” he asked, opening the box, listlessly scattering the cards across the table.

“If Fish Mooney were here,” said Olga, arranging their three flashlights in the center of the table, taking up the deck and beginning to shuffle the cards with practiced ease, “she would know _exactly_ what to do.”

Edward’s look of surprise was more endearing than it should have been. “You knew Fish, too?”

“I go to the club once or twice before Oswald take it over,” said Olga, shrugging. “I get around.”

“Well, Fish _isn't_ here,” said Oswald, resenting his petulance as Olga started to deal. “Last time I saw her, she was busy running off into the woods with Hugo Strange. They deserve each other.”

“I wouldn't mind meeting Fish,” Edward admitted, collecting his cards, “but I'd be happy if I never set eyes on Strange again.” He fussily sorted his cards, grimacing at them. “What are we playing?”

“Go Fish,” said Olga, smugly, slapping the remainder of the deck face-down between them once she'd finished dealing seven each. “You children would not stand a _chance_ against me at the others.”

Oswald ignored the barb, flipping a card face-up in front of each of them off the top of the deck. Clockwise from Edward around to himself: _Ace of Hearts, Joker, Jack of Spades_. Olga and Edward got into a squabble over which card counted as higher under the circumstances (given the Jokers should have been removed from the deck), so Oswald called low-man wins and went first.

Ten hands later, while Edward was soundly cleaning house, the front door opened.

They held their breath while Gabriel sauntered into the room with his gun in hand.

“There's a cop car coming down the lane, boss,” he said, tapping the binoculars around his neck. “Looks like GCPD. It's coming from outside the city, though, like it's been patrolling near Wayne Manor and some of the other rich digs. Didn't like the look of the guy at the wheel, even at a distance. There's one more in the front with him and two in the back. One looks like a kid.”

Oswald nodded, folding his cards in a stack on the table as he got to his feet. “Lead the way, Gabe.”

Olga brought up the rear, trailing after Edward, which made Oswald feel a great deal better, if he was honest. Edward knew how to handle a firearm from his days at GCPD, but his aim left something to be desired. They emerged into the biting night air in time to find Zsasz and Vee at the edge of the driveway with their weapons aimed at the police car as it haphazardly pulled up.

“Oh my,” Edward murmured, stepping close beside Oswald, drawing his pistol from his belt just as Oswald withdrew his own from his jacket. “I can...see what he means now about not liking the look. That staple-job is worse than I thought.”

“But not so bad if you consider he might have done it himself,” Oswald muttered, cocking his firearm.

“Do not dare to come closer,” said Olga, stepping past Oswald and Edward, taking a front-line position between Vee and Zsasz. “You are not welcome on grounds belonging to the mayor. _Tsk_.”

Jerome's grin shone ghastly in the veiled moonlight as he pointed his gun at Olga and opened the passenger-side door for one of his henchmen, who held a semi-automatic machine gun. While that lackey focused on covering Zsasz, Jerome went to the back door and opened it, too.

He stepped aside as his second henchman, who was also armed with a semi-automatic, ushered—Oswald wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him in the moonlight—none other than a surly, handcuffed Bruce Wayne out of the car.

The boy stood with his chin held high, a newspaper clutched in his fists.

“Gentlemen, _ladies_ ,” said Jerome, approaching Oswald and Edward while the second henchman kept his weapon trained on Bruce. “There's been some kind of misunderstanding. We just needed to stop and ask for directions, isn't that right?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Bruce.

“Not really, but all right,” said the boy, resigned. “Yes. I'm afraid we've lost our way in the dark.”

“See,” Jerome said, waving his gun in a playful circle before tightening his aim on Oswald's nose. “Everything's above-board, guv'nor. We're trying to find the Boardwalk Circus. Know it?”

Oswald rolled his eyes, taking aim at Jerome's forehead as insistently as Jerome kept switching between features on Oswald's face for his target.

“That doesn't even deserve an answer,” he retorted.

Jerome grinned at Oswald, clicking his tongue as if pleased. He lowered the gun and strode over to Bruce, fanning open the newspaper in the boy's hands as best he could, gesturing at it.

“Brucie here's been _kindly_ catching me up on current events,” he explained conversationally, punctuating the end of his sentence with a curious choking sound, “while we're out on a nice Sunday drive. _Well_. Almost Sunday. We haven't quite come up on midnight. Yet.”

Edward groaned under his breath, put-upon. “Get to the _point_ , why don't you,” he said.

Oswald felt his pulse spike as he shot Edward a curt sidelong glance. “What Ed means to say is—”

“Hey, I never forget a pretty face,” said Jerome, winking at Edward. “You're a long way from our good old duck-and-cover days at GCPD. Moving up in the world?” He grabbed the newspaper from Bruce, scanning the article. “I must say, the editorials section and emails to the editor are _scandalous_. Even this front-page feature makes out like you two are about to put a ring on it. Congrats?”

Edward mouthed something that might have been a mockery of _thank you_ , but he otherwise remained expressionless. He edged closer to Oswald, pistol still aimed at Jerome’s head.

Oswald smiled thinly. “I am losing my patience, Mr. Valeska,” he said, “and your captive is looking for a way out. May I suggest handing him over? I’m sure there are a number of alternative targets—”

Jerome shifted his stance, swinging the barrel of his GCPD-issue gun from Bruce’s forehead to Oswald’s.

“If there’s anything I _wouldn’t_ recommend, Mr. Mayor,” he said in a low, threatening tone, grinning all the wider, “it’s spoiling my fun. Why don’t you take your paramour inside, have a nice evening by candlelight, and forget you ever made that suggestion?” He scanned the paper, mouthing _blah blah blah_ , and then dropped it. “Hey!” he said brightly. “What do you know, I remember the way!” He turned his gun in his hand until the barrel pointed skyward, ticking it at Oswald like a disapproving finger. “I don't have any quarrel with you. _Yet_.”

Oswald watched, flabbergasted, as Jerome ordered his henchmen to march Bruce back to the car. He got in the driver’s side and tore off down the lane toward whatever mayhem awaited in Gotham.

“Oh dear,” Edward sighed, lowering his gun. “This one’ll cause no end of trouble for us, just watch.”

“He’s the worst kind of brigand,” Oswald agreed. “No discipline, no structure. No _ambition_.”

“What do you think he intends to do with Bruce?” Edward wondered. “Make an example of him?”

“I think he’s picking up where he left off the night of Galavan’s gala,” said Oswald, grateful to Edward for fetching his handkerchief and pressing it to his brow. “Which is less comforting than any option that would make _sense_. Did he leave us because we bored him, or because we’re useful?”

“Evidence _does_ point toward his actions being motivated on a whim,” said Edward, tucking the handkerchief back in Oswald’s pocket, “so my guess is that sheer novelty worked in our favor.”

“How’s that for a test of your theory?” Oswald asked. “So far, we’re stronger together than apart.”

“No one’s more surprised than I am,” Edward replied. “Or more glad to have been proven wrong.”

“We _could_ do exactly what he suggested,” Oswald sighed. “Who’s to say an angry mob won’t come next?” He turned to Edward, catching hold of his waistcoat, leaning in as he lowered his voice. “I’d rather spend my final moments in your arms than pass them playing cards.”

“That can be arranged,” Edward told Oswald, his smile candid and serene. “We have candles on hand.”

“Sure, run along now,” said Zsasz, waving his gun. “Go cower in the honeymoon suite for all I care.”

“My boys do not _cower_ ,” Olga sniffed proudly in Zsasz's direction, spinning on her heel. She strode off around the side of the mansion, presumably to get back to her books. “Text if you need me.”

“So what do we do, boss?” Vee prompted, lowering her gun. “Call for some back-up and keep watch till the mob gets here? I don't like our odds even if the rest of Vic's family can make it.”

“They can _make_ it all right, Viola,” Zsasz sneered, and Oswald was startled to hear Vee's given name for the first time. “Just say the word and name your price,” Zsasz said to Oswald. “I'll have them here inside half an hour. With bells on.”

“Half a hundred grand, no bells required,” said Oswald, curtly, tucking his gun back inside his jacket before taking Edward's elbow. “While I put my money where my mouth is,” he suggested under his breath as they approached the front door, “I'd wonder if you'd consider putting _yours_ —”

“Anywhere you want,” Edward cut in, chipper, slamming the door behind them once they were inside.

Upstairs, Oswald took a seat on the edge of the bed, peeling out of his shoes and socks while Edward made a suitable production of retrieving candles and lighting them at points around the bedroom. The effect of the flames’ reflection in the triptych and dressing table mirrors was otherworldly, glancing like sparks off Edward’s lenses as he turned from lighting the last one.

“Oh,” Oswald sighed, slowing his hands in their progress from loosening his tie to unbuttoning his waistcoat. He extended one hand as Edward approached, thrilling to the touch as Edward took it, kissed Oswald’s knuckle, and bowed to him. “From chess queen to prince charming. You shapeshifter,” he teased, satisfied to see Edward’s cheeks turn faintly pink as he stripped.

“Take your clothes off, Oswald,” Edward insisted, so no-nonsense as to nearly break the spell.

Oswald finished the job, keeping his eyes on Edward as he kicked the last of them to the floor. He scooted backward until he had no choice but to recline against the pillows, limbs loose as Edward crawled onto the mattress and sprawled trembling into Oswald’s arms. 

Mirror-reversal of their first night, except that they were both, indeed, just as desperately hard.

“How was that,” Oswald murmured between fretful kisses, mapping the expanse of Edward’s sweat-damp back, content to let Edward take whatever he needed, “for standing beside me in the dark?”

“Empowering, if anticlimactic,” Edward breathed against Oswald’s ear, making Oswald shiver. “But I’m afraid I can’t think of a riddle for purposes of asking for what I want.”

“I believe you said you’d put your mouth anywhere _I_ want,” said Oswald, mildly impatient.

“That’s part of it,” Edward admitted, backing off so that he could kiss his way from Oswald’s collarbone down to his erection; his wanton, open-mouthed progress made Oswald squirm. “You first,” he whispered, letting the head of Oswald’s cock slip from between his lips, pushing at Oswald’s right hip as he tugged one of the pillows to the side. “On your stomach,” he continued, helping Oswald situate himself. “If…you want.”

Oswald rested his chin on his hands, heart racing a mile a minute. “Ed, what do _you_ think?”

“I think your compliance suggests that you do,” Edward replied shakily, running his palms from Oswald’s shoulder blades to backside as if he had no idea what to do with the permission he’d been granted. “Oh _dear_ ,” he sighed in admiration, breath ghosting against Oswald’s tailbone as he shifted his grasp with an anatomist’s precision, spreading Oswald’s cheeks for better access. “Tell me if…”

From that moment, Oswald was lucky he could do so much as bury his face in the covers and scream. The repeated stab and slide of Edward’s tongue—inside him, _exquisite_ —left Oswald raggedly gasping. Even as shallow and tentative as Edward’s exploration remained, the hand he’d worked between Oswald and the pillow was outright demanding.

“Stop, _stop_ ,” Oswald panted when the attention grew almost unbearable, and Edward sat back on his heels with an immediate, anxious hum. “No, it was fantastic,” Oswald reassured him, finally twisting around onto his back against the pillow with Edward’s assistance so that he could look Edward in the eyes. “It’s just that I thought maybe you’d…” He tugged Edward forward, kissing him softly, letting one hand slip between Edward’s legs. Absurd, how much courage it took to resurrect the suggestion, given it had been Edward’s in the first place. “Want to pick up where we left off the other night,” he finished, stroking Edward suggestively.

“ _Yes_ ,” said Edward, immediately, dislodging Oswald’s hand in his haste to lunge sideways across the mattress for purposes of snagging the tube off the nightstand. “If you’d…let me?”

“At this point, I’d let you do it to me first if that’s what you wanted,” said Oswald, losing track of his thought-process as Edward slicked his fingers. His mouth went dry as Edward, using Oswald’s thigh for balance, turned use of those fingers on _himself_. “Oh, Ed. If you want help…”

“No,” said Edward, voice strained, breath hissing past his teeth as he rocked back, working in what looked like a second finger. “Feels…different from when you do it, check,” he said with a flash of distant observation. He bit his lip on a sudden chuckle, as if he understood the absurdity of it.

Oswald joined Edward’s laughter in spite of himself, steadying Edward with both hands at his hips.

“This might be difficult,” he said as reassuringly as he could. “Relatively speaking, you’ve rushed.”

“I don’t care,” Edward said, jaw dropping on a groan as he did something to himself that Oswald couldn’t quite discern. “Oh, _what_ in the,” he gasped. “Oh my. _Oswald_ , I want—”

“I know,” Oswald said, backing hurriedly up against the rest of the pillows at the headboard. He guided Edward forward by the hips as Edward let his fingers slip out of himself. “Easier if you’re in my lap,” he explained, helping Edward keep his balance as he shifted to straddle Oswald. “There.”

Edward braced his hands on Oswald’s shoulders, questioning. “Do you want to put…or should I…”

Somehow, getting Oswald into position so that Edward could sink down on him was a two-person job.

Oswald was grateful of the fact that both of them could laugh under the circumstances, and God only knew how their persistent haze of desire hadn’t lifted. And once Edward got past the shock of it—the burn so clear in his tear-pricked eyes that guilt wracked Oswald to his core—there were no words, no _words_ for the sensation in which Oswald was lost.

“I…” Edward gulped, shifting his hips without lifting up, afraid to lose contact. “Oswald, _I_ …”

“Oh, this is heaven,” moaned Oswald, delirious as he started to move. “ _You're_ heaven.”

“Okay,” Edward gasped, the strain in his tone giving way to delight as he found an angle from which he could kiss Oswald without interrupting the rhythm they’d set. “I’ll take tha— _ah_.”

Oswald planted his feet firmly against the mattress, hands splayed on Edward’s thighs. Best to ease into this, keep his movements measured and slow in time with Edward’s subtle shifts, best to…

“Oswald,” Edward whimpered, clamping down against Oswald, desperate for contact. “Touch me.”

“So close,” Oswald whispered against Edward’s mouth, stroking him. “Ed, my _dearest_ —”

The words and the touch were all that it took for Edward, wordless, to come gasping and sobbing.

“ _Edward_ ,” Oswald gritted out, only seconds behind, thrusting up with mindless abandon.

“Good,” Edward finally panted, drifting down from his euphoria, curling them close. “ _Good_.”

Oswald let his head loll onto Edward’s shoulder, boneless with exhaustion. “That’s…understatement.”

“I could manage hyperbole if you prefer,” said Edward, unfairly articulate. “Here we are, spending a romantic evening on the brink of disaster. Fiddling while Rome burns,” he added, lowering his voice. His breath against Oswald’s ear sent Oswald quivering into another aftershock.

“Well,” said Oswald, weakly, no match for such poetics. “Stick with me, and there’ll be a lot of that.”

“I can’t wait,” Edward replied, wincing as he shifted in Oswald’s embrace, causing Oswald to slip messily out of him. He yawned, nuzzling Oswald into the pillows. “And…about those editorials…”

“What,” Oswald sighed, too blissfully exhausted to even form a proper question. “Out with it.”

“Love this city or not, Oswald,” Edward promised, “I'm going to make the guilty parties pay.”

“I support your ambitions, Ed,” Oswald reassured him, pecking Edward's forehead, eyes closed in contentment. “One-hundred percent. What did you have in mind for your unwitting targets?”

Edward smiled slowly, skimming his fingertips tenderly from Oswald's bicep up to his shoulder. 

“How would you feel about mind-games followed by a series of strategic explosions?” he asked.

“Mind-games, you’re good at,” Oswald agreed, “but let’s make a note to work on your strategy.”


	19. Burning City

In the late hours of morning, Edward lay awake, hesitant to open his eyes, for a very long while. 

Sensory input suggested a sense of peace and well-being, but he'd far from forgotten the events of the evening before. From the news reports to the lights going out to Jerome's unexpected visitation...

( _Impact, delicate splatter of fluid against glass. Brush of faint breath, warm presence. Rain?_ )

Each scrape of eyelashes against pillowcase grating, Edward blinked reluctantly at the window.

 _Did Gotham burn?_ he wondered, cradling Oswald's head closer against his shoulder.

Still fast asleep, Oswald whimpered, shivered, and dug his blunt fingernails into Edward's side.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Edward whispered, too softly to be heard above the downpour outside. “We survived.”

He kissed Oswald's hair until the nightmare passed, remembering how Oswald had once talked in his sleep—under the influence of heavy sedatives, tormented by fever—with _shocking_ clarity.

“Ed,” mumbled Oswald, as if from an insurmountable distance, “don't let them make me. They can't.”

Edward kissed Oswald's temple, lightly stroking the fine hair at his nape. “Oswald, you're dreaming.”

“They _can't_ ,” Oswald insisted quietly, his lips moving against Edward's shoulder. “Isn't fair.”

“I know,” Edward murmured, watching rivulets form arcane patterns as they sluiced down the panels of antique glass. “I know it isn't,” he said, able to think of any number of circumstances that fit the bill.

“Help me,” Oswald gasped, stiffening in Edward's arms, straining against him. “Help me, Ed. Please.”

“I think you're dreaming about the woods,” Edward said, rocking him. “I helped you. Remember?”

Oswald sighed, abruptly relaxing, as if the message had gotten through. “Yes,” he said. “You did.”

“You're talking in your sleep,” Edward continued, rubbing Oswald's back. “I'm holding you now.”

“Holding you now,” Oswald echoed, his grasp on Edward's hip tightening. “Ed, don't let them...”

“They didn't,” Edward told him, hazarding a guess that last night's anxieties about a mob attack had become conflated with Oswald's memory of the night their lives had changed for good. “We're safe.”

“No,” Oswald breathed, shoving at Edward's hip. “Ed, we're _not_. They'll make me—”

“Make you _what_?” Edward pleaded, at full volume this time, shaking Oswald with insistence.

“Stop,” Oswald said, sagging in resignation, his hand at Edward's hip falling limp. “Make me stop.”

“Oswald, you're talking in your sleep,” Edward said firmly, pressing between his shoulder blades.

“ _You're_ talking nonsense,” Oswald gasped, his eyelashes fluttering against Edward's shoulder.

“No, I was trying to wake you up,” Edward said, heartbeat escalating as Oswald lifted his head to peer at him in confusion. “You were talking in your sleep. Just like you did when you stayed with me.”

Oswald laughed, his eyes crinkling fondly at Edward. “Did I say anything important?” he ventured.

“No,” Edward lied, returning Oswald's sleepy smile. “It was gibberish. You must've been dreaming.”

Someone chose that moment to knock forcefully on the door, causing Edward to startle and gasp.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Oswald soothed, rolling onto his back, pulling a shaking Edward along with him.

“We didn't let anyone in the house,” Edward said in a smaller, shriller voice than he would've liked.

“Olga, is that you?” Oswald called, rubbing Edward's back to reassure him. “Gabe? Who's there?”

“Is only me, Oswald,” Olga replied loudly. “Since early, I have been getting reports. The Wayne boy is safe, and man with the cut-off face has been taken to hospital. Soon, he will go into Arkham.”

“He belongs there with Tetch and all the rest,” said Edward, emphatically, his pulse gradually slowing.

“Yes, darling, he does,” Oswald agreed fiercely, hugging Edward hard. “Olga, is there anything else?”

“I find Gabe and the others sleeping in chairs and on sofa,” she said scathingly. “Should I wake them?”

“No,” Oswald sighed wearily, leaning away from Edward in order to snatch his phone off the nightstand. “Leave them alone until Ed and I come downstairs. They've earned it.”

“My poor brave boys,” she crooned, footsteps retreating. “I go make breakfast. Be ready in an hour.”

“Okay,” Edward called, feeling another overwhelming surge of gratitude toward her. “Thank you!”

“I'm going to guess none of the mob mentality made it out this far,” Oswald said. “We have a message from Barbara saying the meeting's still on, and...” He hit buttons while Edward cuddled close and peered at what he was reading. “Messages from Tommy, Duke, Nicky, Santino...” Oswald's frown deepened. “They suffered losses last night. They're saying things like _let's talk about this Jerome fucker instead_. Instead of what?”

Edward bit his lip, his mind racing, the simplest answer dreadful to consider. “She lied,” he blurted.

“Lied about _what_?” Oswald asked, exasperated, snapping his phone shut. “I don't understand.”

“This might be premature, but I call Barbara's bluff,” he said, feeling suddenly, irrevocably foolish. “All that talk yesterday about the docks and south of the Narrows? I don't buy it.”

Oswald rolled to face Edward, mouth tightening in a grim line. “You mean she tried to play us?”

“Very likely,” sighed Edward, with a tired nod. “It was an attempt to draw us out, maybe an ambush. She probably told the others and got their approval. Whoever included you in the reply containing _instead_ did that accidentally. I bet she panicked and changed the purpose of the meeting, tried to make it look...” He shook his head. “Jerome has caused mass panic. Nobody saw this coming.”

“Nobody but Lucius Fox,” Oswald reminded Edward. “We've been keeping the wrong pet cop.”

“Fox isn't an officer,” Edward replied, “but I do take your point. Jim is increasingly unreliable.”

“He gave us some sound advice, though,” Oswald said. “He told us to lie low, and it paid off.”

“Lying low would involve not attending Barbara's meeting today,” Edward reminded him sternly.

“Something tells me that attendance would be wise,” Oswald said. “We need to restore order.”

Edward thought about that. “Fake disorder has, overnight, become the genuine article. I see.”

Oswald kissed him, open-mouthed and achingly tender.

“Breakfast first,” he said. “And we should probably feed the troops, too, seeing as we'll need to take them along for the ride.”

Edward grabbed Oswald’s phone, texting the order down to Olga, wondering if she’d get it in time.

“Still, find out who suggested they come inside during the night,” he warned. “Issue a reprimand.”

“One step ahead of you,” Oswald groused, rolling out of bed. “God, I'd kill for a mimosa about now.”

“No drinks,” Edward chided, following him to the bathroom. “Not until after the meeting, at least.”

Beneath the onslaught of hot water, Edward's knees threatened to give as Oswald kissed him up against the tile with breathtaking intensity. His anxiety had ratcheted up far too high, intolerable.

Oswald told Edward how clever he was, how fearless, how he would never have survived this mess without him. Oswald's hand on Edward was tender and grounding, _insistent_. He came within minutes—shivering against Oswald in spite of the heat, in helpless, hiccupping tears.

“My brave, _brilliant_ Ed,” Oswald praised, rinsing him off. “I love you. Let’s wash that hair.”

While they sat over the drain and Oswald massaged his scalp, Edward molded his hands, index fingers and thumbs poised, to Oswald’s breastbone in a too-familiar shape. Whether Oswald noticed or not, the kiss he left against Edward’s sudsy forehead suggested he’d gotten the message.

Once they’d dried and dressed each other in their finest—exorbitant purples against Oswald’s black-and-white; platinum, gold, and pearl against Edward’s dazzling emerald—Oswald fetched the as-yet unworn bowler out of its hat-box and placed it decisively on Edward’s head.

“Since I bought you this ridiculous thing, you’re damn well going to wear it,” Oswald told him. “I can’t think of a better occasion than the…show of force we’ve got to make in a couple of hours.”

Edward turned to the mirror, adjusting it with satisfaction.

“It’s almost eleven thirty,” he said. “We should head downstairs. I hope Olga’s prepared enough food for five.”

“She always does, even if it’s just for the two of us,” Oswald said, offering his arm to lead them out.

Downstairs, they found Gabriel, Zsasz, and Vee digging into a spread of scrambled eggs with bacon, fruit, and pastries.

Olga had set out an entire pitcher of orange juice, and there was a jar of Oswald’s favorite peanut butter beside the toast.

“I’ll text Caroline while we eat,” said Edward, taking his habitual seat caddy-corner to Oswald. He nodded to Vee at his left elbow as he fired off the missive, noticing that she’d overloaded her plate with everything except bacon. “Looks like you’ve worked up quite the appetite.”

“Yeah, well, sleep-dep and adrenaline will do it,” she said with distaste. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Thank you for what you did last night,” replied Edward, unable to meet her eyes, closing his phone.

“I get that this kind of shit is hard for you—but, for next time? I’d suggest showing your respect first.”

“Of course,” said Edward, offering her a chagrined smile. “Show respect first, check. It was—quiet?”

“Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse,” said Zsasz, sarcastically, from across the table. “At least not way the hell out here. You and boss have the advantage of living in La-La Land.”

“That wasn’t so advantageous for Bruce,” Edward reminded him, shrugging as he doctored his tea. “Maybe the rabble didn’t dare come close, but Jerome showed no such hesitation.”

“Would everyone _please_ shut the hell up,” Oswald sighed. “We’re leaving in forty minutes.”

Oswald’s hand on Edward’s knee beneath the table suggested he had nothing to worry about, but Edward made sure to give the appearance of contrition. It wouldn’t do to disrespect Oswald in front of foot soldiers who, when all was said and done, had served them admirably well.

Leaving Olga behind to deal with the aftermath of breakfast, they filed into the driveway a short while later to find Caroline looking too chipper for somebody who’d passed the night in the city’s outskirts.

“Lookin’ kinda tense, Mr. N,” she said, opening the back door of the limousine for him and Oswald while Victor and Vee followed Gabriel to his car. “You don’t need to worry about me. I battened down the hatches, turned out the lights, and holed up in the bedroom with my trusty handgun and Kindle. Heard a lot out in the street, but nobody came knocking.”

“I don’t think I ever asked, but how did you come to work for Oswald?” Edward asked as Oswald closed the door behind them and Caroline revved the engine. “Nothing fazes you. _Nothing_.”

Caroline opened the partition as she started out of the driveway, first plumes of smoke drifting back.

“Oh, I used to gun-run with Vee,” she said casually. “Got out of the business before she did, though. Wanted something a tad more sedate where maybe the shooting would come in handy once in a while. This way, I mostly get to meet people and shoot the breeze instead. Kinda perfect. How’d you think Mr. C got it in his head to haul Vee in for an interview? I recommended her.”

“That’s enough chit-chat,” Oswald said, offering Edward a cigarette. “We need to focus. Do we confront Barbara with her possible trap just to get it out of the way, or do we let her hang herself?”

“I’m always in favor of the latter,” Edward said, shrugging as Oswald lit it for him. “It’s entertaining.”

“Heaven knows we could do with some of that,” Oswald agreed, patting his jacket thoughtfully for a moment before deciding against reaching inside. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, leaned forward, and lit it off Edward’s. “If it doesn’t flush out in due course, though, I’ll corner her.”

“It’s Tabitha I’m worried about,” Edward admitted, blowing smoke as Caroline put down the windows for them. “She’s injured and cranky. After giving her that souvenir, I might as well have dropped a hornets’ nest on her head. I’m beginning to think I went overboard.”

“You didn’t,” Oswald said, flicking ash out the window. “I wasn’t going to let her leave without a scolding. Poetic justice, if you think about it—I made your kill, and you delivered my slap.”

“I like how this is working out,” Edward said, reclining against the seat. “Today should be _fun_.”

“We just need to stay on our guard,” Oswald replied. “Barbara’s as smart as she looks and more.”

On arrival at The Sirens, Barbara greeted them like the gracious hostess she usually played: beaming, forthright, and falsely devoid of malice. She took in the sight of Gabriel, Vee, and Zsasz, less than pleased, but when her eyes fell on Caroline, she looked perplexed.

“My long-suffering driver, Ms. Fowler,” Oswald explained, turning on the charm. “Won’t you provide her with a drink and let her sit at the bar while we discuss business? She’s a crack shot, too.”

Caroline lifted her uniform jacket to expose the holster at her hip, giving Barbara a thumbs-up.

“I _love_ a girl with a gun,” said Barbara, licking her lips. “Have a seat and help yourself to anything you can find,” she said with a generous, sweeping gesture. “If anyone comes in, shoot them.”

Caroline saluted, adjusting her cap so that strands of copper hair fell free. “You got it, Ms. Kean.”

“Now _you’re_ my kind of ginger,” said Barbara, connecting the dots between Caroline’s shining buttons as she passed her, leading the rest of them toward the rear. “If you ever wanna play…”

Edward smirked as they marched after Barbara into the back room, but Caroline declined to answer.

The long, heavy table that Edward had seen only once before was already occupied. There was a cheese plate containing an uncut wheel of brie, an assortment of crackers, and a knife.

Tommy Bones sat to the immediate left of the unoccupied head seat, and Nicky the Nail was beside him. Santino occupied the seat to Nicky’s left; meanwhile, directly across from him, Duke sat in taciturn silence next to Tabitha, whose right arm was in a sling.

Barbara took the empty seat to Tabitha’s left, which situated her at Oswald’s right hand as he took his place at the head of the table. “Oh _dear_ ,” she said, looking pointedly at Edward. “We’re full.”

Edward shifted to stand at Oswald’s left shoulder out of habit, offering her a curt smile. “I’ll manage.”

“No, you absolutely will _not_ ,” snapped Oswald. He swept his gaze around the table, satisfied with the positions along the wall that their team had taken. “Gabe, go get Edward a chair.”

“Boss,” said Gabriel, back within seconds with the first one he’d been able to grab from the lounge.

“Bring it over,” Oswald said, seeing to it that Edward stepped aside so Gabriel could place the chair where he’d been standing. “There,” he continued, taking Edward’s hand, chivalrously guiding him into his seat. “That’s _much_ better. The gang’s all here.”

“Since when does _he_ have a place at the table?” Tommy demanded, snapping a cracker before shoving half of it in his mouth. “Last time I checked, sidekicks stay at home.”

“Since he became my partner in all things legal, illegal, and otherwise,” said Oswald, conversationally, reaching for the cheese knife. “I'm disappointed that the usual channels of gossip, in your case, seem to have failed,” he continued, cutting a slice of brie and edging it onto a cracker before handing it to Edward. “I was really, _really_ ,” he added, lunging to his left, plunging the knife into Tommy's jugular with all the swiftness of a viper, “hoping not to have to explain.”

Edward stuck the hors d'oeuvre in his mouth and bit down, calm as the others struggled to contain their shock. His heart rate and the heat in his cheeks would have given him away otherwise. Oswald's fury was magnificent, complemented by the traces of blood at his collar and sleeve.

“Gabe, do me a favor and see this man out,” said Oswald, wiping the blade on a napkin as Gabriel obediently dragged Tommy, gurgling into death-rattle, out of his chair. “Are there any more questions?”

Nicky raised his hand. “I heard about Butch and that poor son of a bitch from Blackgate,” he said insolently, glaring as Edward continued to chew. “Do you guys get off on this or somethin’?”

Oswald met Edward's eyes with a blandly disappointed expression, shaking his head as he turned to face Nicky. “You've been putting up with similar from these two—” he gestured at Barbara and Tabitha with the knife “—for longer than I really need to illustrate. Not to mention, you've never protested this loudly about Ms. Galavan at the table, isn't that right?”

Nicky shrugged, regarding Edward with disdain. “Hostess’s prerogative,” he said. “Maybe if this was happenin' at your place, we'd keep our traps shut outta respect, but seein' as you _lost_ —”

“Ms. Aragon, do the honors,” Oswald cut in, and Nicky slumped forward as Vee's bullet whistled cleanly through his skull and buried itself in the tabletop. “I’m sorry, what was he saying?”

“Calm _down_ , Ozzie,” said Barbara, grinning as Gabriel came back into the room just in time to clear the second body at Oswald's signal. “Kill everyone, and it'll defeat the purpose of this meeting.”

Tabitha, furious and alert, was on the edge of her seat. She’d slipped her arm out of the sling, in which she'd been hiding something, and was using it to keep her gun trained on Edward's head.

Oswald smiled patronizingly, rising from his seat, shuffling until he blocked Tabitha's shot trajectory.

“Oswald,” Edward hissed, hands instinctively flying to rest on Oswald's hips, “ _what_ are you—”

“I was under the impression you called us here because you felt it was time for a little...restructuring, given the circumstances,” said Oswald, addressing Barbara smoothly. “I thought I'd make the job a little easier. Four heads are better than six, no?” he asked, shifting his gaze to Duke and Santino, who didn't say a word. “Granted, two of said heads pretty much consist of domestic partnerships, but let's not split hairs.” He set down the knife for emphasis, leaning forward on the table. “Ed's word is as good as mine, and you _will_ obey it! I can't speak for Barbara with regard to her trigger-happy sweetheart, but I'm going to guess the same rules apply,” he added, stroking both hands over Edward’s at his hips, gently removing them as he resumed his seat. “Put the gun down, Ms. Galavan. There’s an unhinged maniac with no sense of principle or order back from the dead, and if you think that Arkham can contain him for long, then you are a fool. We have a lot of work to do. Victor?”

Zsasz, who had silently moved into position behind Tabitha's chair, shoved the barrel of his gun up against the back of her neck.

“Please,” he said with exaggerated civility.

In silent disgust, Tabitha dropped her gun on the tabletop. She snatched Barbara's offered hand, squeezing it so hard that, in Edward's estimation, her fingernails might draw blood.

“Not so fast,” Barbara said, still too collected for Edward's liking. “There’s another item of business that needs taking care of first. Since you all keep up with the papers, it’s no secret that Mayor Penguin here is putting us all at risk with his controversial antics in the public sphere. That interview with Hearst? Worst call _ever_ , am I right? Forget about your love affair; it’s the inevitable poking into your past that _I'm_ worried about. Journalists will flock from miles around—out of state, even—and they'll find out sooner than later that you're the same old crooked bird as before. And if they investigate _you_ , Ozzie? They investigate _us_."

 _Goddamn it_ , Edward thought, casting Oswald a bitter sidelong glance. _She's right_.

“Plus there's what you did to Butch,” said Tabitha, icily. “Believe it or not, he was crucial to our operations, and you took him from us. In order to keep the peace, we demand blood for blood.” Her eyes flicked over to Gabriel, who had re-entered and resumed his place along the wall. “How about that one, since you won't give up your boy-toy?”

Oswald bristled visibly, letting Edward take his trembling hand beneath the table.

“Gabe is not a pawn. I _refuse_ to surrender him,” he snapped. “I think you might be confused. Butch threatened Ed's life on not one, but _two_ separate occasions. He was almost successful, too. Butch's blood paid for those infractions. You have no room to demand restitution. The matter is closed!”

“Ed didn’t _die_!” Tabitha insisted, which prompted Zsasz to shove his gun harder against her. “You could’ve just hurt Butch like you hurt me.”

“My trigger-happy honey has a point,” Barbara said, picking up the cheese knife. She spun it between her gloved index fingers, thoughtful. “Surely there’s something else you could do to make amends. You don't need _all_ your fingers, right?”

“Hey, uh,” said Santino, hesitantly waving his hand. “If this is turning into some kinda quarrel that don’t involve us, can we just...y’know, leave?”

“I didn’t come here to get swept up in your in-fighting,” Duke agreed. “Shout it out, fight it out, I don’t care. But if you can’t get your shit together in the next five minutes, we’ve got important things to worry about. Like how long we’ve got before that red-headed sideshow freak busts out.”

While Barbara launched into a raucous argument with Duke and Santino, Edward set a hand on Oswald’s arm.

“Did you mean what you said,” he whispered, “about my word being as good as yours?”

Oswald nodded, locking eyes with Edward, seeming somewhat in despair of the situation. “Yes, I did.”

“I can solve this,” Edward said, “but you might not like what it’ll require you to do. What I can promise is that there will be no more lives lost. You've already spent the only ones you can spare.”

Tightening the set of his mouth, straightening his back, Oswald nodded resolutely. “Do it.”

Edward squeezed Oswald’s hand, let go of it, and braced both palms against the edge of the table. He leapt to his feet, deliberately using the leverage to rattle everyone where they sat. 

Just as he’d hoped, four bewildered pairs of eyes darted up to him as the room fell completely silent.

“Ladies, _gentlemen_ ,” he said, smiling beneficently, wondering if Oswald would notice he had borrowed a page from Jerome’s book of showmanship. “In quarrelsome company, I prove unsustainable. Laid out in plain sight, I remain unattainable. What am I?”

In the stillness that followed, Edward could’ve heard a pin drop until Tabitha noisily cleared her throat.

“Compromise?” she asked, jerking defiantly backward against Zsasz. “Compromise, my _ass_.”

“I believe there’s an obvious remedy," Edward said. "If you’d like nosy journalists and prying Feds to stay out of your business, then the solution is simple. It should also satisfy Ms. Galavan’s eye-for-an-eye vendetta, given it requires an _immense_ sacrifice." He set a hand on Oswald's shoulder, as much to brace himself as to support Oswald. “First thing tomorrow morning, I intend to call a press conference. Mayor Cobblepot will resign.”

Oswald tensed beneath Edward’s palm as if he’d been touched by a live wire.

Much to Edward's relief, he nodded once—stiffly, but with palpable resolve.

Silence prevailed for the better part of several seconds until Barbara's manic applause cut through it.

“Oh, Eddie, that’s _rich_ ,” she cried, wiping tears from her eyes. “Either you’ve got poor Oz so whipped he’s no longer in charge, or Vickie over here is about to put one in your head for treason.”

“Did you not hear what I said?” asked Oswald, drawing his pistol out of his jacket and pointing it at Barbara. “What Edward says, _goes_. I will resign tomorrow morning, no questions asked. The media storm was bound to be too much of a headache anyway. Gotham needs me here more than it needs me in city hall, and I'll be damned if I try to overstretch myself any longer.”

Barbara made a mock-astonished face at Edward. “That’s impressive, sweetie-pie. You did good!”

Edward straightened his jacket and sat down, inclining his head toward Barbara without a word. He was shaking too hard to formulate a coherent response. His maneuver had worked.

Tabitha muttered something that sounded a lot like _fucking martyr_ under her breath, but Barbara’s hand, shifting back to cover Tabitha’s against the table, seemed to steady her.

“Fine,” she said grudgingly, meeting Edward’s questioning glance. “That's…acceptable. I’m gonna enjoy watching Penguin eat crow.”

Oswald started to nod, reticently placing his gun back inside his jacket.

“See?” he asked. “How hard was that? Ed's a real mediator. A problem-solver. And heaven knows we could _all_ use a bit of that. Santino, Duke,” he said, turning his attention on the two neglected heads-of-family. “How do you propose we split the real-estate that's just come up for grabs between the two of you?”

Barbara smacked the table, indignant at having been left out. “Hey! Asshole! We’re still here!”

“You control more territory than Santino and Duke combined,” Edward reminded her. “Besides, Nicky and Tommy controlled portions of the South Narrows and Docklands respectively. Those border on Duke’s and Santino’s grounds to begin with. It makes sense to seamlessly annex them.”

“Ain’t too shabby,” agreed Santino, reaching across the table to swipe the knife, gesturing for Duke to pass the cheese plate. “I’m tight with most of Tommy’s people, rest his soul. They’ll switch over to me, and the ones that don’t? I'll force ’em or kill ’em.”

“I might have trouble with a few of Nick’s crew,” Duke said, swiping a cracker, “but it’s nothing I'm not equipped to handle. Are we in agreement?”

Barbara pressed her index fingers into her temples and then, relenting, spread her arms wide. “Fine. Since you proved you can play like big boys, I guess we can do the same. Tabby, what do you think?”

Tabitha shrugged. “Okay with me. But if Riddle-man here causes any more trouble—”

“That's Riddl _er_ to you!” Edward snapped, losing his patience with Tabitha’s surly demeanor. “I can assure you I'll remain cordial as long as you do the same. Blood for blood, remember? As everything stands, we're even.”

“Riddler, huh?” Barbara asked, thoughtfully twirling a strand of her hair. “By the way, love the hat.”

Oswald withdrew the cigarette holder from his jacket, taking his time mounting and lighting one of the Dunhills. “This _does_ call for a celebration, doesn’t it? Gabe, why don't you go grab us something nice from the bar.”

“Give him a break,” Edward said, patting Oswald's shoulders as he got to his feet. “I’m your sommelier, after all. Allow me.”

Through a haze of relieved, elated pride, Edward made his way out to the bar. Caroline was precisely where they’d left her, working her way simultaneously through a bottle of Hendrick’s and a bottle of Seagram’s. Off to one side, Tommy and Nicky lay trussed-up neatly in garbage bags.

“Another day in the life, huh,” she said, offering Edward a sip of her gin and tonic. “You like these?”

“Not particularly,” Edward said cheerfully, making his way around the opposite side of the bar, “but thanks.” He found a Riesling similar to the one he’d picked up for dinner with Oswald, contemplating it with reverence, and the exact magnitude of the reparations he’d make to Oswald for having cost them city hall became clear. “Caroline,” he said tentatively. “Can you do me a favor?”

“As long as it doesn’t require me to stop drinking or leave,” she replied, “I might even do it for free.”

Edward pulled out his phone and flipped through his address book till he’d found the entry he wanted.

“This is a courthouse colleague's personal number,” he explained, handing over the device. “Ms. Tierney owes me a favor, and it’s time to call it in. Tell her to send me a text this evening. I’ll be waiting.”


	20. Beside You

Oswald watched with wary approval as Duke and Santino stepped away from the table, each beginning the tedious process of contacting Nicky's and Tommy's lieutenants. While the two men mumbled into their phones, Zsasz and Vee shifted their aim to the transition proceedings.

“All's well that ends well,” Oswald said to Barbara, smugly satisfied. “Was I sufficiently my old self?”

“You're not the one who impressed me,” Barbara replied, propping her elbows on the table, tucking her chin over her folded hands. “There's more to that pretty twink than meets the eye.”

“ _Seriously_?” Tabitha scoffed, side-eyeing Barbara over her comment on Edward. “Gross.”

Barbara shrugged, winking at Oswald. “I can look all I want as long as I don't touch. Love what he's done to his hair, too. It's always the mousiest nerds that clean up the nicest, isn't it?”

“You're on thin ice,” Oswald told her. “I wouldn't _dream_ of making such comments about—”

“That's because you wouldn't know an attractive woman if one landed in your lap,” Tabitha retorted.

Gabriel peeled away from the wall and came over to whisper in Oswald's ear. “He's takin' a while.”

“Then go _help_ ,” Oswald suggested aloud, exasperated. “That many glasses is a lot to carry.”

Gabriel sighed and nodded, shuffling wearily out of the back room as Oswald lit another cigarette.

“The little umbrella's a nice touch,” Barbara said, pointing to the silver band on Oswald's holder.

“Stop trying to delay the inevitable,” Oswald said, leaning close to blow smoke in her face. “If it hadn't been necessary for you to enact a change of plans, I might've walked into your trap. Edward's the one who saw right through it, so believe me when I say you _should_ be impressed.”

“Here's the thing I really enjoy,” Barbara said, snatching Oswald's Dunhill out of the holder, drawing it up to her lips for a savoring drag. “You may be unhinged, [but darling Eddie is _bugfuck_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10918659).”

Before Oswald could properly react, Tabitha tilted her head at Barbara as if genuinely intrigued.

“What makes you so sure?” she asked, accepting the cigarette from Barbara, taking a drag in turn.

“It's always the quiet ones,” Barbara replied, snatching the Dunhill back from Tabitha, handing it to Oswald. “And there's what he did to land in Arkham, plus what he just pulled right here on our turf.”

“Ed's time in Arkham is no more on the table for discussion than mine,” Oswald sneered, stubbing out the cigarette directly on Barbara's inlaid tabletop. “No more than _yours_ , I imagine.”

Barbara shrugged, eyes flicking up as Edward came back into the room with two uncorked bottles of wine while Gabriel followed with three glasses in each hand. “ _My_ past is an open book.”

“Nobody in this city's free of scrutiny,” muttered Tabitha, folding her arms across her chest as Gabriel set a glass down in front of her and Edward poured her some red after she pointed to it. “Except the Court.”

Oswald watched while Edward set the bottles down next to Barbara and asked, “Except for what?”

“Figure of speech,” Tabitha said, rolling her eyes. “Rich twits who run everything. _Duh_.”

“Last time I checked, you were very much one of those,” Oswald said tauntingly, watching Barbara help herself to some of the red. “ _Once_.”

Edward remained where he was, frowning at her even as Gabriel set glasses in front of Oswald and Edward's empty spot. “You reminded me of something, that's all,” he remarked, finally making his way back around the table to sit beside Oswald. “Would you please pass the Riesling?”

“If that's the two-hundred-dollar stuff from like fifteen years ago, I'm gonna be pissed,” Barbara said.

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Oswald told her, passing the bottle without hesitation. “Ed's taste is superb.”

Edward nodded, filling both his glass and Oswald's. “We had last year's vintage the night Oswald made his intentions toward me clear,” he said, smirking at Barbara. “I couldn't resist.”

“I'm okay with chit-chat as long as we agree on less over-sharing,” Tabitha said into her glass.

Oswald was, beyond the shadow of a doubt, enjoying Tabitha's sullen misery. He accepted Edward's wordless toast, clinking the rim of his glass off Edward's before raising it emphatically to Barbara.

“To new beginnings and a need-to-know basis,” he proposed. “And maybe if we get a handle on things and they settle back to running like clockwork, Ed and I will consider that cruise.”

Barbara clanged her glass into Oswald's hard enough to splash some Riesling on Oswald's sleeve.

“While the Penguin's away, the seagulls will play,” she said, taking a long swallow. “You'd risk it?”

“Maybe we'd have you come along,” suggested Edward, sarcastically. “As friends, you understand.”

Before Oswald could consider a response of his own, Edward distracted him with a hastily-produced handkerchief pressed to the damp spot on Oswald's sleeve. Lacking salt, it would have to do.

Santino returned to the table and poured himself some wine. “It's a done deal, Cobblepot,” he said.

“Spectacular,” said Oswald, offering him a strained, yet encouraging smile. “Now all we need is for Duke to finish securing his end of the bargain, and we'll be set. Is anyone else hungry?”

“There's still cheese and crackers,” Santino pointed out, helping himself to another large handful.

Edward met Oswald's questioning gaze, thoughtfully swilling the contents of his glass. “I could eat.”

“This is hardly the kind of spread for such a momentous occasion,” Oswald told Barbara. “Why don't you consult with Ms. Galavan and order something in. May I suggest Torino's?”

“Good choice,” Santino agreed, gesturing Duke over as he hung up his phone. “Hey, you like pasta?”

While they waited for the catering to arrive, Caroline came in from the bar with Edward's phone in hand. She passed it off to him with an impressively sober air given Oswald smelled gin on her.

“You left this on the bar, Mr. N,” she said, patting the back of Edward's hand. “Be more careful.”

“Thank you,” said Edward, tersely, flipping it open and firing off a text before tucking it inside his jacket. “I'm asking Ms. Mendel to arrange the press conference for nine thirty tomorrow morning.”

Oswald felt a sick flutter in the pit of his stomach, but he nodded. “Whatever must be done,” he said.

They didn't leave The Sirens until nearly six o'clock in the evening. The food was to as high a standard as any Oswald had eaten during his time in Maroni's employ, and Edward was furtively insistent that they remain until Santino's and Duke's phones stopped ringing at intervals. 

While they ate, Gabriel called in a team to deal with the bodies. The blood-stains, Oswald decided, were Barbara's problem.

He and Edward lingered until the Duke and Santino had departed.

“Don't trust us, Ozzie?” Barbara asked, smacking a mocking kiss against the back of Oswald's hand. “Even after a nice, big family dinner?”

“I'll trust you as long as your actions match your words,” said Oswald, tartly. “Have a pleasant night.”

Edward took Oswald's arm as Caroline held the front door of the club for them. “Thanks for the wine.”

Over his shoulder, Oswald could have sworn he heard Tabitha start railing at Barbara the minute the door shut behind them. What squabbles the day's events had touched off were no concern of his.

On the ride home, Edward received several texts—to which he responded with a greater deal of secrecy than Oswald had grown accustomed. He flipped the phone shut and scooted close to Oswald when he was finished, tucking it away in his jacket.

“Ms. Mendel seems to have been able to pull the appropriate strings,” he said. “Nine thirty it is.”

“I know that these actions are entirely necessary,” replied Oswald, “but that's cold comfort, Ed.”

With a pained expression, Edward set his hat aside on the seat. He took Oswald's face in both of his gloved hands and kissed him.

“I said I would do whatever it takes to protect you, remember?”

Oswald nodded, covering Edward's hands with his own.

“Yes. And your efforts put mine to shame.”

Edward shook his head, eyes widening for the briefest of moments as he studied Oswald's features.

“This is the first night of the rest of our lives,” he said, “and I want to make sure that you enjoy it.”

“I think you misunderstand me,” Oswald insisted. “ _I'm_ the one who owes _you_.”

Edward shook his head again, leaning in for another kiss. “I'd prefer not to think of it as keeping score,” he said evenly. “It's just that we're on the brink of another new enterprise, and I thought...”

Oswald couldn't form coherent thoughts by the time they reached the mansion, not with Edward's clever tongue in his mouth for most of the remainder of the ride. He surrendered to it, sighing.

Olga was displeased with the fact that they straggled into the entryway smelling of wine and marinara sauce, but Oswald could tell that she was secretly pleased to have another night off. Edward dismissed her with his usual effusive courtesy, and Oswald was happy to let him.

Making it up to the bedroom was difficult—less because Oswald's leg refused to comply, and more because it was Oswald's turn to waylay Edward at every opportunity. They staggered to a standstill against the wall at the top of the stairs, with Edward pinned and gasping.

“You were incandescent, Ed,” Oswald whispered, his hand wound in Edward's tie. “Never in my wildest _dreams_ had I imagined...”

“That's an underappreciated word, too,” Edward panted, his fingers impatient at Oswald's lapels. “Whether I'm taking you to bed or you're taking me to bed, can we just—get on with it?”

“So impatient,” said Oswald, coyly, letting Edward's tie unravel so he could use it to lead him.

Perhaps deciding that letting Oswald take charge was the better part of valor, Edward lay under him so sweetly, so _still_ while Oswald removed his clothes. Propped up on his elbows, naked and flushed, he watched Oswald remove his own and toss them piece by piece over the side of the bed.

“I want you,” he said, surly, watching as Oswald finally discarded his socks. “Please come here?”

Ignoring the flare of pain that twisted its way from ankle to knee, Oswald crawled up the length of Edward's body and pinned him on his back.

“How would you like my mouth on you...” He trailed off, certain in the knowledge that Edward's love of nostalgia rivaled, if not _exceeded_ his own. He let his fingers slip from the base of Edward's cock down to his balls and lower, _lower_ still. “Here?”

Edward swallowed thickly, eyes fluttering shut for an instant before re-focusing on Oswald's question.

“Like...like I did to you,” he managed, his grasp on Oswald's hips tightening, trying to ground himself.

“Yes, silly,” Oswald teased gently, using his free hand to stroke along Edward's jaw while he massaged carefully between Edward's ass-cheeks with the other. “Like you did to me last night.”

Edward nodded once, fiercely. “You enjoyed that,” he said with dazed admiration. “Very much.”

“Did you get an idea of whether it's something you'd want?” Oswald tried, recalling how crucial it had been for Edward to control particular mouth-involved acts before being on the receiving end.

Edward drew a defiant breath, pushing himself up till he was nose to nose with Oswald.

“Yes,” he said, as if recalling how crucial it was for Oswald to have verbal clarity. “Eat me out.”

Oswald felt an unspeakable rush of pride. He kissed Edward on the lips, unhurried and deep, easing him back into the pile of pillows that was still much worse for the previous night's wear.

“Just lie back,” he murmured absently, licking from the hollow of Edward's throat down to his breastbone, his skin flushing hot at the sound of Edward's bitten-off whimper. “I'll take care of you.”

Oswald hadn't planned on rushing past Edward's belly in favor of getting Edward's cock in his mouth, but Edward seemed more ticklish than usual, twitching at the slightest of touches. He moaned and writhed as Oswald sucked him for the better part of a minute, his breath cresting on a disappointed gasp as Oswald let him slip free. He buried his fingers in Oswald's hair and tugged at it, impatient.

“Words, Ed,” Oswald reminded him, nosing tentatively along Edward's cleft before letting his tongue dip for an experimental taste. “If you need me to stop, then I expect you to use—”

“ _Don't_ ,” Edward gritted out, his fingers tightening almost murderously in Oswald's hair, “ _stop_.”

“Didn't think so,” Oswald mumbled, lapping at him with abandon. “Wanted to make sure.”

At the abrupt departure of Edward's fingers from his hair, Oswald glanced up in time to see Edward fold both arms across his face. He dug his fingers into his own shoulders, the low groan of his breath muffled into the crooks of his elbows instead. 

Oswald stroked the backs Edward's thighs to calm him, finally working his tongue a little ways inside.

Edward stiffened as Oswald repeated the motion, hips moving almost imperceptibly in time with Oswald's tongue, the sounds he was muffling into his criss-crossed arms suspiciously familiar.

“Ed,” said Oswald, between shallow stabs and licks, “do you need—me to stop, or—is this—?”

“No,” Edward pleaded, nevertheless over-sensitized to the point of tears. “ _Don't_ , but it's...”

Overcome with the desire to give everything Edward seemingly couldn't ask for, Oswald left him with a few more licks before making his way back to Edward's cock. He sucked languidly at the head until Edward's breathing evened out and his responses shifted back to delirious impatience.

When Edward tugged at his hair this time, it had an edge of inquiry. Oswald stopped what he was doing and crawled back up to settle against Edward, savoring the feel of his damp skin and the way his shuddering chest rose and fell out of sync with Oswald's.

“I was thinking,” Oswald panted, pecking Edward on the lips, pleased at what a wreck Edward had made of his own hair, “that I might want you to fuck me now. How does that sound?”

“It sounds...” Edward nodded, swallowing, struggling to get his breath under control. “Ride me?”

Oswald kissed him hard, shivering at the intensified throb between his legs. “I don't know how long I can do that, but I'll try,” he agreed, shifting up to straddle Edward's hips, testing his weight against the give of the mattress beneath his shins. Painful, but worth the attempt.

“If it hurts you too much, then I...” Edward trailed off, watching as Oswald snagged their near-depleted tube off the nightstand. He helped Oswald slick his fingers with the last of it, applying the remainder to himself as Oswald wasted no time beginning to work himself open.

“It'll hurt no matter what,” Oswald gasped, letting his weight bear down on his hand. "This will go smoother if you let me do the prep-work.”

“Getting me this wound up was a mistake,” Edward said. “It'll be—too fast, it won't be good for—”

“Was last night good for you?” asked Oswald, pointedly, taking Edward's cock in his hand, already shifting into position. “I don't remember _that_ lasting very long, and it was good for me.”

Edward struggled to prop himself on his elbows—gasping, _rapt_ as Oswald sank slowly down onto him.

“Yes— _oh_ ,” he moaned in astonishment, struggling to sit up against the pillows, taking hold of Oswald's hips. “Yes, it—Oswald, it was _divine_.”

“Then I have no clue why you're worried whether this lasts two seconds, or two minutes—or two thousand years,” Oswald managed, the sentiment escaping him in a sarcastic rush. He settled flush with Edward's trembling thighs, the strain in his own almost unbearable.

Edward buried his face against Oswald's collarbone, wrapping both arms around him impossibly tight.

“I still can't believe,” he mumbled, using Oswald's momentum to bounce him slightly, “can't believe that you _want_...” He swallowed a whine, hips already stuttering. “That you want me like...”

“For God's sake, _Ed_ ,” gasped Oswald, as Edward managed to hit his prostate, “I want you so many different ways I can't _name_ them, so...”

He was in too much pain to come undistracted, but it brought an achingly welcome clarity as Edward, seconds later, lost track of their rhythm and sobbed breathlessly against Oswald's shoulder. 

And while it was an understated finish, perhaps, to let Edward slip from him and rut against Edward's belly—what with Edward's palms pressed so fervently to his back, it was no less satisfying.

Edward's breathing finally evened as they shifted to lie, stretched out and sated, against one another.

“Do I really get to have you?” he asked eventually, in a near-whisper. “Do we really get to have this?”

“Until our hearts stop,” Oswald promised. “And maybe even longer. After all, this _is_ Gotham.”

Edward shivered, likely thinking of the recent resurrections.

“I wouldn't want to come back different,” he insisted, heartrendingly anxious. “I wouldn't want to forget.”

“I would find you again,” Oswald said with dreadful, determined certainty. “I would tear this city down brick by brick if that's what it would take.”

“Oswald,” Edward yawned, nudging their foreheads together once Oswald had managed to tug Edward's glasses off and drop them on the floor. “I hope you know...how _much_...”

“My love, go to sleep,” Oswald sighed, stroking his cheek. “No need to belabor the point. I do.”

Edward mumbled a response that ended on _say the same thing tomorrow_ , closing his eyes.

If it was a riddle, it was one with which Oswald had no familiarity. Faintly troubled, he slept.

In spite of Oswald's insistence immediately upon disabling their alarm, morning found Edward clingy and reluctant to rise. He was listless while they showered, responsive only when pressed. Oswald let Edward curl back into a half-dozing ball on the bed while he dressed, rousing him again when it was his turn. He let himself be dressed and coiffed without an ounce of protest.

“Are you all right?” Oswald asked, adjusting Edward's tie a second time before placing the pin.

Edward nodded, snapping to attention as Oswald picked a piece of lint off his shoulder.

“I think so,” he said. “Yes. It's just that—today is important.”

“Nobody appreciates the gravity of the situation more than I do,” Oswald reassured him, buttoning Edward's jacket. “There. What a heartbreaker.”

“Not yours,” said Edward, quickly, trapping Oswald's hands against his chest. “ _Never_ yours.”

Oswald blinked at him in concern, tugging his left hand free, pressing the back of it to Edward's forehead. “Are you sure you aren't feeling ill?”

“Of course,” Edward said, offering him an unusually tight smile. “I'm fine.”

Nodding reluctantly, unsettled by Edward's inability to respond even with a riddle, Oswald fetched his cane and led them downstairs.

Olga was astonished that they arrived while the tea was hot.

“I will watch from television while you address city,” she fretted as she bustled in to deliver their plates. “Whether is good or bad.”

“It's...necessary, Olga,” Oswald told her, nodding resolutely as Gabriel appeared in the doorway to indicate that guard detail was in order. “Ed will be with me the whole time, so what have I to fear?”

“I have suspicion what this means,” she sighed, spreading napkins across their laps one after the other. “Maybe is for the better.”

Edward looked upset at his breakfast, moving his fork from one item to the next without doing so much as cut them in smaller pieces.

Oswald set a calming hand on his wrist, stroking beneath the sleeve, letting his thumbnail drag lightly across platinum and emerald.

Edward sighed at the touch, at the sound it produced, putting some watermelon his mouth. “ _Mmm_.”

“Do me a favor today, Olga,” said Oswald, deciding that a change of subject was in order. “Go online and research architects with experience in renovating historic buildings. There are a couple of rooms in this place that need sprucing up.”

Olga was already making a note in her phone, thumbs tapping away as Oswald spoke.

“Which rooms,” she prompted. “So I can tell them and get more accurate quote.”

“The master bathroom and the study,” Oswald, watching Edward's eyes soften as he continued to pick at the bits of fruit, crispy bacon, and hashbrown on his plate. “The shower in the former needs to be much larger, and the latter needs to become a laboratory of sorts. Ed will have more to say about that once we get somebody on-site.”

Olga looked up from her note-taking, waving at Oswald's plate. “You hardly eat a thing, and it is quarter to nine. _Tsk_ ,” she scolded, making her way back to the kitchen. “Hurry. Caroline arrives very soon, just like I tell her.”

“Giving Olga access to your calendars is one of the best decisions I ever made,” Edward said, pleased with himself, although clearly back to just pushing around what was left of his food. “She called Caroline before I even got the chance.”

“You're out of another job,” Oswald reminded him. “But the open window this time is urging you to embrace...rather more decadent things.”

“I'll enjoy the late mornings as much as you do,” Edward said, his eyes luminous. “I'll appreciate...what the increased free time will mean.”

Oswald thought about making love to Edward any morning he wished without fear of repercussions.

“I plan to take you up on that, just so we're clear,” he said, tapping the toe of his shoe against Edward's.

“Crystal,” Edward replied, his cheeks faintly pink as he tugged the napkin out of his lap and dabbed at his lips. “I think our ride is here.”

“Then we shouldn't keep her waiting,” said Oswald, decisively, pushing his chair back and snatching his cane. “Olga!” he shouted, grateful of Edward's immediate assistance in getting to his feet. “We're finished! You can clear this away any time!”

“Get out of house, or you will be late!” she called back. “I wait until after you are on television!”

Tempted by Caroline's perpetual haze of smoke, it took all of Oswald's willpower not to break out his cigarettes en route to the courthouse. He knew that the after-effects tended to leave Edward more jittery than they left him, and Edward was already worked up to a frequency that Oswald could scarcely decipher. He seemed to be taking the circumstances much harder than Oswald, and _he_ was the one who had brokered them.

“Ed,” Oswald said, setting a hand on his thigh as the crowd in front of city hall parted to let Caroline pull up to the curb. “Stay close beside me. You don't need to say a word. Everything will be all right.”

Edward nodded, swallowing hard as Caroline opened the door for them. “All right,” he echoed. “Yes.”

Oswald let the flash of a myriad cameras wash over him as he made his way up the stairs toward the podium, paying for the rigors through which he'd put his leg the night before. The other discomfort, he welcomed—knowledge that Edward wanted him, body and soul, come hell or high water. 

He propped his cane against the podium, grasping the sides of it for balance as Edward stepped up close beside him. There was already a murmur throughout the crowd, as if their very proximity, increased and amplified, spoke more succinctly to what was coming than any words.

“Citizens of Gotham,” Oswald said, seeing no reason to delay the inevitable, choosing to set his eyes on the winter skyline far beyond them. “It is with a heavy heart that I announce my resignation from the office of mayor, effective immediately, as does my chief of staff, Mr. Edward Nygma, from his.” He paused, permitting the inevitable surge of gasps and sundry other responses to rise along with the tide of flashes. “Although my time with you has been brief, rest assured that I remain, in my civic pride and otherwise, one of this city's most devoted servants.” 

The audience's ongoing response seemed to be genuinely mixed between regretful and vindictive.

Beside him, Edward had relaxed, hands loose at his sides instead of folded.

Oswald set a hand on Edward's shoulder as he'd done so many times before.

“Edward and I will do our utmost to ensure that Gotham thrives,” Oswald vowed. “Thank you for having given us the opportunity to leave this, our _home_ , in better condition than we found it.”

As Oswald stepped back from the microphone and waved, struggling to maintain a smile that wanted to flee from the portion of the audience's reaction that consisted of hoots and jeers, Edward slipped an arm around him. He leaned close to Oswald's ear, his breath tremulous.

“We're not going back to the car,” Edward said, turning Oswald toward the remainder of the stairs leading up toward the entrance. “Don't ask any questions, and don't say anything to the reporters.”

They had a devil of a time reaching the revolving doors, what with the pack of news anchors at their heels.

Edward fended off every last one of them with a stern _no comment_.

“At least tell us what you have planned for the rest of the day?” asked Valerie Vale, ever more persistent than the rest. She attempted to follow them inside, but Edward headed her off while Oswald braved the perilous ingress with Caroline's assistance.

“Tying up loose ends,” said Edward, curtly, ducking in behind them just before the door cut him off.

“Ed, I don't understand,” Oswald insisted as Edward took his arm. “There's nothing left to see. I'll just send Gabe and some others to clear out our offices. I have the feeling Aubrey James will be reinstated until—”

“This has nothing to do with your resignation,” said Edward, meeting Caroline's glance over the top of Oswald's head as he hustled them into the elevator, “and everything to do with me making amends.”

“Vee might be upstairs already,” said Caroline, chewing her lip, “but she told me she'd be slightly late.”

“If she's having trouble getting through the crowd,” said Edward, cryptically, “then that's problematic.”

“Would someone _please_ explain to me what's going on here?” Oswald demanded as the elevator _dinged_ to a stop on the third floor. “There is no earthly _reason_ we need to pay the Register and Recorder a visit before we leave! I understand that you and Ms. Tierney have bonded over sharing clues on the daily _Gazette_ crosswords, Ed, but can we—”

“On the contrary,” Edward said, leading Oswald into the deserted hallway while Caroline hung back next to the elevator. He got down on one knee on the worn marble, and Oswald's mind scrolled blank. “There's one _extremely_ compelling reason,” he said, kissing the back of Oswald's hand before getting to his feet again, “in the form of a ten o'clock appointment.”

Oswald couldn't decide whether he was touched beyond words or furious that Edward had, when all was said and done, gone through with his threat of the week before and taken the entirety of their nuptial decision-making out of Oswald's hands. He took hold of Edward's lapels.

“We don't even have rings!” he exclaimed, finding that, instead of fury, he was choking on dismayed laughter. “I'm as fond of tradition as the next person, but I don't need a piece of paper to tell me what we mean to each other. Ed, we shouldn't feel obliged to rush. We've made so many changes in so little time as it is. _Why_ are you doing this?”

“Because I'm keeping you,” said Edward, all fierce, gorgeous insistence, “if it's the last legal thing I ever do. Besides, I like our certificate collection. How can I pass up an opportunity to add to it?” He stepped closer to Oswald, bringing one hand up to cup Oswald's cheek. “Also, if...either of us ends up back in Arkham, spousal rights will prove useful.”

Oswald knew that Edward's argument, possessed of sound sentiment and logic, needed to stand.

“Well, who am I to object?” he said finally, stroking the back of Edward's hand. “Take me to church.”

“Religion is a whole other kettle of fish,” Edward replied, grinning so hard it hurt. “We're up next,” he said, checking his watch, releasing Oswald so he could open the door to Tierney's office. “After you.”

The three of them filed inside just as Jim Gordon turned away from the counter with a folder in hand.

“Before you ask if I was here for your big announcement,” said Jim, “the answer is no. I had business relating to a case. Documentation request.” He shifted his gaze from Oswald to Edward, perplexed to see them looking so overjoyed. “For what it's worth, I think you made the right choice.”

“I think so, too,” Edward agreed readily. “My husband-to-be knows when he ought to take my advice.”

“Husband-to-be?” Jim echoed, as if flashing back to some bad dream, looking to Oswald in confusion.

“That's right,” Oswald said proudly, taking a step closer to Jim. “Ed's making an honest man of me.”

“That remains to be seen,” Jim said. “Anyway, congratulations on— _ah_. Everything.”

“Thank you,” Edward preened, bouncing on his feet, making eyes at Jim. “Oswald's quite a catch.”

“Yeah, I'll bet he is,” Jim replied hastily, trying to duck past them, making for the door. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Not so fast,” Oswald said, grabbing his arm. “It just so happens we're short a witness, and I've changed my mind regarding one of those favors you owed me. Do you have a minute?”

“Dammit,” Jim said, working his jaw. “Fine. Make it quick, and don't expect me to sign anything.”

Edward clapped in delight, striding to where Tierney waited. “Vee will be sorry she missed this.”

“Consider it GCPD’s comeuppance for that dull wedding you once mentioned,” Oswald said, looking Jim straight in the eye before stepping up beside Edward. “Detective Gordon’s a fine proxy.”

“I couldn't have asked for a _better_ best man,” Edward gushed.

“Anything for you,” replied Oswald, nodding to Tierney. “Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For curious and interested parties, there are two bonus ficlets that immediately follow this chapter: one is from Jim Gordon's perspective, [**_Between Old Friends_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10914795), and picks up immediately where this installment ends and shows the wedding ceremony in its entirety; the other is from Ed's perspective, [**_Newlywed Blues_**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15035855), and shows what happens right after they get home from city hall.
> 
> There is also another ficlet, [**_Fever (When You Hold Me Tight)_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10969905), that follows both of those and comes _before_ #21: _Pillbox_.


	21. Pillbox

Oswald—warm presence and movement, given that Edward couldn't see a thing—took a few moments to lounge against the pillows, perhaps appreciating the flushed sprawl Edward made beside him on the mattress. The subsequent scrape suggested that he'd reached to swipe his cigarette holder off the nightstand. He flopped back against the linens, catching his breath while he lit up.

Edward, still blindfolded with one of Oswald's old ties, wrinkled his nose as the first plumes of smoke curled in his direction. He heaved a contented sigh, wriggling his fingers against the sheets above his head, testing his use of them. His toes, too, seemed to have recovered.

“It's a good look on you,” said Oswald, hopefully holding the cigarette well away as he shifted to cozy up against Edward's side. “A good color, too,” he added as an afterthought, holder perched between his teeth while he pushed the lilac silk up into Edward's wrecked hair. “How was that?”

Edward panted, his cheeks hot. “You're smug enough to do _that_ right away,” he said, removing the holder from Oswald's mouth, taking a leisurely puff before handing it back, “so count it a success.”

Oswald grinned, extending his arm to flick ash over the side of the bed while he leaned in for a kiss. “You make the prettiest picture,” he murmured against Edward's mouth. He trailed his fingers lightly over the livid constellation of bite-marks he’d left from Edward’s collarbones down to his chest. “I should have had the old fool paint just you, _just_ like this.”

“Forgive me for being relieved that's _not_ what has unseated your father's portrait over the mantel,” Edward laughed, nudging at Oswald until he shifted to lie back against the pillows again. “Careful. You'll get it all over the sheets.”

“Like they're not already ruined,” Oswald said pointedly, too satisfied to protest further. He slid his left arm around Edward's shoulders as Edward shifted to curl against Oswald's side instead. “It's ten o'clock on a Monday and we're not in the office. Oh, how I've missed this.”

“You've had time to re-acclimate,” Edward replied, lazily draping his arm across Oswald's middle. He considered the disarrayed breakfast tray on the floor and gasped, struck by both the mess and his realization in equal measure. “It's not just any Monday.”

“Well, no,” Oswald agreed, taking a considering drag. “It's seventy-two hours post your latest _tour de force_ , and you're still glowing. It's a wonder my paltry efforts rate at all.”

“Five for five,” said Edward, cheerfully, his lips brushing Oswald's shoulder. “All ruled suicides or inconclusive. In which you had a significant hand. Don't pretend you're not proud.”

“Proud of _you_ ,” Oswald parried, stubbing the half-smoked Dunhill out in his stepmother's carnival glass ashtray. He set the holder back on the nightstand so he could press an affectionate fingertip to Edward's nose. “My avenging angel. And we haven't even checked this morning's press,” he added, indicating their untouched _Gazette_ on the rug. “Vale's been having a field day with the coverage. She ought to send you flowers.”

“I only want flowers if they're from you,” said Edward, with single-minded intent. “Observe me, lest I pass unnoticed,” he improvised, slightly irked at Oswald's obliviousness. “What am I?”

“True, nobody's going to miss a conductor,” said Oswald, pleased with himself, but missing the point. “As for that first streak over the holidays, you would've thought—” he started to count off on his fingers, as if he'd lost track “—artists, curators, philosophers, and writers—pompous _ass_ , that one—were in short supply. This city's intelligentsia, if they ever learn to connect the dots, will certainly think twice before writing letters to the editor concerning political scandal.”

“While I appreciate your analysis, that's not what I meant,” Edward sighed, sprawling sideways until he'd managed to shift on top of Oswald. “It's our six-week anniversary.”

Oswald's expression was comical at such close range, especially without benefit of Edward's glasses.

“Eight or nine weeks by my reckoning?” he ventured, stroking Edward's cheek. “If you count from—”

“I'm counting from the courthouse,” Edward said, exasperated, turning his head to kiss Oswald's palm.

“Oh,” said Oswald, soft and apologetic. “Ed, of course. A _monumental_ oversight on my part.”

“I appreciate that you spared no expense on framing,” Edward said. “Best Christmas present ever.”

“We're running out of space for display in the sitting room,” Oswald cautioned, giving Edward another intoxicating, tea-and-smoke-flavored kiss. “No more certificates for a while.”

“We could bring them all up here,” Edward suggested, sitting back to straddle Oswald's hips. “The walls are relatively bare, and there's room on top of the chest of drawers.”

Oswald folded his arms across his chest. “As much as I like that thought, the renovations are slow going,” he said fussily. “All that hammering would knock things askance. I can hardly keep the dressing table in order as it is. I still can't find where that eyeliner's rolled off to.”

Edward groaned, flopping forward against Oswald's shoulder. “The team's back in at noon, huh.”

“Yes, so let's not lounge _too_ much longer,” said Oswald, with displeasure. “Another week of this, though, and we'll have more of a shower than we know what to do with.”

“I can think of some things,” Edward muttered, mouthing at the distinct pattern of freckles across Oswald's collarbone. “ _Lots_. I'm keeping a list.”

“Thank goodness your talents aren't wasted in retirement,” said Oswald, coyly. “But seriously, Olga will come knocking pretty soon if we don't go down the hall, get cleaned up, and clear out.”

“I just want our main bathroom back,” Edward groused, turning on the petulance just so Oswald would unfold his arms and wrap them around him. Fortunately, it had the intended effect.

“I know,” Oswald said, rocking him until his eyes closed, “but you like that the one up the hall's got a tub. An hour and a half is more than enough time to make...indecent use of it.”

Edward shook his head, feeling too drained to move. “I'm down for the count,” he said regretfully.

“Sensory deprivation does tend to have that effect,” Oswald sighed, petting his hair. “Poor darling.”

Edward let his thoughts drift to the next task, assuming that their back-to-back meetings with the Duke's and Santino's crews later that afternoon would let them get back to plotting. He frowned.

“I can hear you thinking,” Oswald said, his fingers halting their methodical progress down Edward’s spine. “That's rarely a favorable sign. We don't have to rush. You said the GU chemistry lab is empty on Wednesday evening, and that's when Dyson goes in to work after hours?”

“I've triple-checked the timetables online,” Edward replied, nodding. “And my stake-outs have shown that's his consistent routine, so...”

“Then everything's set,” Oswald reassured him. “As per usual, we'll follow your plans to the letter.”

Edward relaxed into Oswald’s massage, astonished to realize how fully he'd tensed to begin with. 

The pillbox in his coat pocket downstairs nagged at him even from a distance. It had been a relief to sleep, _truly_ sleep, for the first time in what felt like a week. Training Oswald not to fuss about him leaving the bed past midnight to work on set after set of meticulous plans had taken some doing. He was usually dead to the world when Edward returned.

“Ed, you're jittery,” Oswald observed, taking him by the shoulders, urging him to sit back up. “You should finish what's left of your breakfast before we bathe. I understand that your appetite's low when you're working like a fiend, but you _can't_ —”

Edward climbed off him, got out of bed, and stretched. “Go run the water while I lay out our clothes.”

“Routine,” Oswald said, placated for the time being, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress with a wince. “I hope you won't object to scalding; I feel like I've slept wrong on _everything_.”

An hour or so later, Olga was pleased to see them come downstairs looking presentable with the remnants of their breakfast in tow. She approvingly took the tray off Edward’s hands.

“At least this part of disaster, I do not have to clean,” she said all too knowingly, bustling off again.

“I stripped the bed!” Edward called after her. “I’ll wash it later tonight! You know I’m good for it!”

“Is no good you keep such late hours!” Olga shot back. “But less work for me? Cannot complain!”

The doorbell clanged loudly, causing Edward to freeze in his tracks. “That’s our construction friends.”

“Sit down, Ed,” Oswald insisted, propping his cane against the dining table. “Olga will let them in.”

Edward reclined on the sofa and opened the newspaper while Oswald went directly to the liquor cabinet. He couldn’t exactly protest the gin-and-elderflower concoction that Oswald brought over for them, especially not when Olga brought some chilled tonic from the kitchen so Oswald could add it. The syrup’s sweetness took off the juniper edge that Edward had never liked, and his current vices far exceeded drinking before noon.

Granted, inside thirty minutes, it would no longer be a violation.

Oswald flipped on the television while they drank in silence, watching the same reports that Edward was reading. More interviews with grief-stricken members of the Gotham Symphony, more uselessly befuddled statements from the GCPD.

Harvey Bullock’s voice instantly caught Edward’s attention.

“Is it just me, or does he sound twice as lost as usual when Jim’s not around?” Oswald asked.

“Par for the course,” said Edward, rolling his eyes, turning his attention back to the latest editorial. “The man could rarely tell his, well, posterior from his elbow without Jim calling the shots. At least while I was there. He’s good at barking commands and getting people to do things, though.”

“Gabe’s intel has confirmed Jim might be on leave for a week or more,” Oswald said, settling into the curve of Edward’s offered arm. “This bodes well for your next…appointment.”

Olga side-eyed Edward as she breezed back in to collect the tonic water. “You should lock study while strangers come in and out,” she said. “All those charts and blueprints. The expensive equipment.”

Edward dipped his fingers into his waistcoat pocket, handing her the key on its tiny, jingling ring.

“Sorry,” he said, chagrined as she took it. “Oswald made me wrap up early last night, and I forgot.”

“Is nonsense, having laboratory in house,” she muttered, stalking off down the hall. “Distraction.”

After bringing the key back, she left them with the insistence that the upstairs rooms needed dusting.

In actuality, Edward knew she preferred to hover while the renovation crew worked to ensure that nothing important went missing. She’d done the same thing during the study-to-lab retrofit a fortnight before.

****

****

“She’s better than a home security system,” Oswald remarked smugly, “and has sharper aim, too.”

Edward decided against commenting that alarm systems didn’t usually include built-in firepower. He kissed Oswald’s temple instead, shifting his focus back to the _Gazette_.

Shortly before one, several of the Duke’s lieutenants arrived for the first of their meetings. This one included full lunch service by Olga, which served a purpose as dual as any other function in their tightly-ordered universe. She hovered at the edges of the proceedings with her handgun, a gift from Oswald in the wake of Jerome’s visit, hidden in her apron.

By the time both Duke’s and Santino’s crews had come and gone with their status reports, Edward had a head full of notes to type up so that Oswald could keep them on file. Electronic, of course; nothing on paper. _That_ side of things, Edward maintained above-board and to the letter.

While Olga was gone for several hours on a grocery-and-household-supplies run before dinner, Edward impatiently saw the renovation crew on their way. The limited periods during which Oswald was willing to have them on the premises were the cause of the project’s slow progress, but Edward couldn’t complain about the result.

They made love on the sofa undisturbed, at least until Olga’s text alerted them to the fact that she was almost home.

Still dizzy with the after-effects of his orgasm and Oswald’s immediate transition into repositioning him on the floor, Edward drank in both Oswald’s cries and climax with equal enthusiasm. He rested his cheek against Oswald’s thigh as Oswald deleted the text, his hands still bound.

“Something tells me we had better stop using ties for this,” Oswald said, reaching down to free Edward’s wrists with several precise plucks of his fingers. “Get up, poor love. Your knees.”

“I don’t mind,” said Edward, and meant it, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “I got mine.”

Oswald tugged Edward down to settle close beside him, handing him what was left of the water they’d learned to keep ready on the coffee table.

“You’ve been swallowing,” he noted. “You don’t have to.”

Edward shrugged, gulping the water down fast. “I like the way you look when I do. It pleases me.”

Oswald nodded and kissed him, reaching for Edward’s shirt and waistcoat draped neatly over the arm of the sofa.

“We had better get dressed,” he sighed. “She’ll be here in less than fifteen minutes.”

Edward lingered over nipping Oswald’s lower lip, hoping that this would buy him another all-nighter.

Dinner ran later than either of them had expected, as Olga was in one of her moods that related directly to the amount of business they’d conducted earlier in the day. Two courses was typical, but _three_? Edward bore it with as much long-suffering humor as he could muster, careful to eat almost everything on each of his plates in order to appease both Oswald and the cook.

After dessert, Oswald discarded his napkin, took up his cane, and stepped close to Edward’s chair.

“I know you won’t be joining me upstairs,” he said, resigned. “You’re in for another long night?”

“Yes,” Edward admitted, wiping his mouth, stepping close to Oswald as he rose. “Is that okay?”

“Whatever you need, Ed,” said Oswald, firmly, “to make sure that Wednesday meets your aims.”

Olga strode in and began to clear plates, taking in the exchange with disapproval. She said nothing.

“Wake me up when you come to bed, whenever that is,” Oswald insisted. “Checking in, remember?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Edward, impatiently, pressing a quick kiss to Oswald’s lips. “Go on. I’m fine.”

Edward stood next to the table alone for what felt like an eternity, listening to Oswald’s halting progress up the stairs. Once he was gone, Edward dashed into the hall and fumbled the pillbox out of his coat pocket. He popped the silver catch, enjoying the slight creak of its antique hinges.

Edward placed one of the capsules between his teeth, tonguing it apprehensively. He’d left his wine glass on the table, so he’d have to swallow dry if he didn’t want Olga to catch on—

At the sound of Olga clearing her throat right behind him, he almost choked on the bitter, bright sting of dissolving gelatin and stimulant-grit on his tongue. He whirled to face her, furious.

“He does not know you do this,” asked Olga, sternly, “taking… _things_ so you don’t sleep?”

Edward felt his anger flare, once again the guilty child caught scrawling puzzles on the wall.

“He knows that I used to,” he said, swallowing the acrid remainder. “Back when we first met.”

“Then why are you doing it again?” Olga demanded. “You could do this work in the afternoons.”

“I work best at night,” Edward insisted, nerves and mind already alight. “I can think more clearly.”

“Whatever you say,” Olga scoffed, snatching the pillbox out of his hand. She flipped it open, counting the remaining capsules. “Is enough maybe for one more week. One more _job_. After that, you stop?”

Edward gritted his teeth, snatching back the box. “All right, _fine_. Till the next time, anyway.”

“I do not like this talk of next times,” Olga sighed, walking past him toward the dining table. “Good evening, Edward. I finish cleaning and go home. Do not make your husband wait all night. Is rude.”

Edward felt peevish and emboldened enough to explain that his day had been eventful enough on the sexual front as it was, but he bit his tongue.

“Good evening to you, too, Olga,” he said instead.

Edward set to work immediately upon slamming the laboratory door behind him, taking to his checklists in a frenzy. The requisite supplies, he’d had ready for days, the end of one scheme bleeding seamlessly into the beginning of the next. What he intended to _say_ , on the other hand…

He jotted the script he knew by heart, mouthing each crucial phrase-set with bitten-off precision. 

He tended to stumble when flustered, and he’d had an incident during the first interrogation from which he might not have recovered if Oswald hadn’t been standing off to one side, ready to offer silent encouragement, with his pistol drawn.

The second scenario had played out seamlessly; he hadn’t needed to look at Oswald even once.

For the third, fourth, and fifth, Oswald hadn’t even been in the room, opting to wait for Edward at their designated escape-points instead.

The sixth, Edward hoped, would see Oswald waiting outside for more reasons than one. The staircases in the GU science building were perilous, and the finale would be...tricky to time, on a hair-trigger.

Edward rested his chin on the backs of his hands, smearing ink across the undersides of his arms, reciting the riddles one after another like the mantra they were. He knew that he was starting to crash, and it was late, _late_.

Oswald was waiting upstairs, but the words drew him inexorably on...

_I can fill a room or just one heart. Others may have me, but I cannot be shared. What am I?_

“Ed,” someone whispered, disturbingly close to Edward’s ear as they shook him. “ _Edward_.”

Edward startled awake, sitting upright at his desk. He caught the intruding hand against his shoulder.

“ _Ow_ ,” Oswald complained, shaking Edward harder. “Do you even know how long you’ve been in here?” he asked, pointing at the clock. “Please tell me you remember how to tell time.”

Yawning, Edward blinked at the position of the hands against Roman numerals. “Ah. It’s morning.”

“Seven forty-five, to be exact,” said Oswald, concerned, wrapping his arms around Edward from behind. “You’re not to touch this again until tomorrow. It’s only Tuesday. Please, _please_ come to bed.” He helped Edward out of the chair, noting his discarded jacket, loosened tie, and rolled-up sleeves. He turned Edward’s hands over in his own, studying the black smears. “Is that _ink_?”

“I can’t afford to stumble again,” Edward muttered faintly, letting Oswald, who’d come downstairs without his cane, hustle him out of the room. “I need to make sure—”

“You, my love,” said Oswald, chastising, helping him up the stairs in spite of the fact that his leg seemed unsteady, “are a raving mess. Sleeping pills. You’re taking some.”

“No,” Edward said, knowing even in his exhaustion that he didn’t like the way _that_ particular cocktail tended to go down. “I’m tired enough.”

“You once drugged me for my own good, so why can’t I do the same to you?” Oswald challenged, getting them to the top of the staircase with a labored huff. “I want you out cold for eight hours.”

“At this rate, I’ll sleep for twelve,” Edward retorted, throwing off Oswald’s grasping fingers, stalking ahead of him into the bedroom. He shed his clothes carelessly on the floor, aware that Oswald was staring at him as if the actions rendered him a bizarre facsimile of himself. “Quit nagging.”

“ _Nagging_?” replied Oswald, in sheer, sarcastic disbelief. “You start pulling compulsive all-nighters, losing more and more sleep, and _I’m_ the one who’s a pain in the ass?” He backed Edward down on the edge of the bed before he could strip out of his underthings, an action Edward felt too weak and dazed to resist. Fumbling in the nightstand drawer, Oswald came up with a flashlight, which he shone directly in Edward’s eyes before Edward could swat it away. “Oh, _Ed_.”

Edward twisted his fingers together in his lap, nonetheless able to maintain his hard, stubborn glare.

“How much did you take?” Oswald demanded, his fury dissolving into teary-eyed concern. “When?”

“Just the one,” Edward confessed sullenly. “Shortly after nine o’clock p.m. It’s just…after-effects.”

Oswald let the flashlight fall to the floor, wrapping Edward in an embrace so fierce they both shook.

“You’ll take something to sleep,” Oswald said shakily. “I don’t have a syringe, but I have persuasion.”

“I’ll take sleeping pills if you’ll take your painkillers,” said Edward, relenting. “Your leg’s strained.”

“ _That’s_ how you bargain,” Oswald replied, recovering some of his cheer. He grabbed his cane and hobbled out of the room, returning from the guest bathroom with a glass of water and two vials.

How long they slept, tearfully curled into each other beneath the fresh covers Olga had wrestled onto the bed sometime between lunch and dinner the day before, Edward didn’t know. His dreams were awash in dread, imageless, his unspoken anxiety cutting scalpel-like into each thought.

 _Not enough, Eddie, is it?_ taunted his mirror-voice, making its first appearance in weeks. _Never enough. There’s what dear, darling Oswald tells you, and there’s what you know—_

 _Jesus, you asshole,_ interjected Kristen, unexpectedly. _Leave him alone. This is my job._ She expanded, blood-tinged smoke tendrils drifting to the edges of his consciousness. _Wedded bliss_ , she taunted. _How’s it working out for you? Still can’t believe you’re worth something to someone, can you? Not that I can even point a finger. I was never very good at self-respect._

“Shut up,” Edward snarled, kicking at the covers, startled to find that he was blinking into Oswald’s pale, alarmed eyes hovering over him. “Shut _up_ , or I’ll— _Oswald_?”

“It’s…about two o’clock in the afternoon,” Oswald said tentatively, pressing his right palm over Edward’s trip-hammering heart. “I should have…considered there might be side effects.”

“You were right,” Edward muttered, swiping his damp hair back from his forehead. “Sleep was more important. I need to be in top form for tomorrow. What’s a few voices in my head?”

Oswald groaned and curled forward against Edward’s chest, despairing with worry. “Not great, Ed.”

“Then don’t _ever_ convince me to take sleeping pills off the back of stimulants again,” Edward sighed, kneading his fingertips into Oswald’s wire-taut shoulders. “On the up-side, I feel rested.”

“You can’t keep doing this,” Oswald hissed, bunching his fingers in Edward’s undershirt. “It’s…”

“Unsustainable,” Edward finished, extending the massage further down Oswald’s back. “I know.”

If Olga wasn’t happy to see them in nothing but dressing gowns and slippers, she didn’t show it. She served them a brunch as extensive as the previous evening’s dinner, making a point of including Edward’s tin of biscuits and Oswald’s peanut butter. Edward was ravenous, which pleased both Oswald and Olga to no end. The ginger tea with honey seemed especially conspicuous.

They spent most of the evening propped up against opposite ends of the sofa, legs tangled in the space between them, reading. Edward found it an immense relief that Oswald enjoyed the consumption of printed matter at least as much as he did, although he questioned Oswald’s taste in fiction with a severity best kept to himself. In matters of verse both contemporary and dated, they agreed.

At intervals, Olga brought them whatever they asked for, and sometimes even what they did not. Tea service with a light dinner of sandwiches around eight o’clock did Edward’s stomach fewer favors than he’d let on, although he knew Olga could see straight through him.

Near eleven, with great reluctance, Oswald stretched and closed his book. “I’m absolutely beat, Ed.”

Edward looked up from the _Gazette_ crossword, expectant. “Let me finish, and I’ll be right up?”

Oswald fetched his cane from the coffee table, setting one hand atop Edward’s head as he passed.

“If more than an hour goes by, I’ll come back down to fetch you,” he said. “You can hold me to that.”

Nodding, Edward bit the end of a pen that was, in all honesty, too expensive to chew on. “All right.”

Olga came in from the kitchen once Oswald was gone, busy drying a casserole dish. “You promise?”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Edward exclaimed, tossing both the newspaper and Oswald’s pen aside on the table.

“Is not on orders that I do this,” said Olga, firmly, coming over to sit beside him. “I worry, too.”

Edward leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, rubbing his forehead. “I understand that.”

“However, last night needed report,” she admitted guiltily. “I went upstairs to tell Oswald you seem…funny, seem _worse_. I did not mention pills. That conclusion, he arrive for himself.”

Edward drew a shaking breath for the courage it would take to say the words crowding in his throat.

“Oswald had a mother who cared for him,” he said. “Two mothers, even, if you count Fish. Three, Olga, if you count _you_ , although maybe being on payroll negates that possibility.”

“He treat me with respect from day one, even if he did not much understand me,” she said. “I care.”

Edward nodded, straightening his back, hesitantly turning his head to meet her curious, incisive gaze.

“You’ve only been in my life a few months,” he managed, “and you’re more of a mother than I…”

Olga reached for him stiffly, patting his forearm with her ring-bedecked hand. “At first, I look out for you because it makes Oswald happy,” she confessed, “but then I learn—you are lost just like him.”

Edward regarded her hand on his arm, unable to decide whether the touch was a welcome one or not.

“You think we’re lost?” he asked, deciding the pressure was acceptable, determined not to shake her off.

“You were more lost before you find each other, but you are not out of the woods yet,” Olga replied. She got up, hands braced against her thighs, wincing at some strain—arthritis, if Edward had to hazard a guess. “You will go to him now. Tomorrow is big day, won't do to lose sleep.”

Edward nodded, rising, permitting Olga to escort him into the entryway. He mounted the stairs while she donned her coat and handbag and looked on, her eyes following him up the staircase.

He crept into the bedroom, tugging the door shut behind him. Steeped in darkness, the bed gave beneath his weight as he crawled beneath Oswald’s habitual, head-obscuring nest of covers.

“Scoot over,” Edward whispered into the soft hair at Oswald’s nape. “You’re right in the middle.”

Oswald stirred, reaching back to draw Edward’s arm tight around him. “I love you,” he murmured.

“Same,” Edward whispered, his throat thick as he pressed his lips to Oswald’s shoulder. “So much.”

The next morning, from their significantly-delayed breakfast through several hours’ grueling review of preparations, Edward found that he was able to concentrate without either benefit of drugs _or_ intrusion from the voices lurking just beneath his thoughts. Oswald was calm and focused.

After lunch, they met with Gabriel and Vee, who had some fairly banal reports to make on the activities of Harvey Bullock and Lucius Fox at GCPD.

While officers continued to nose around the city in droves, nothing had so far led them in the right direction. More than ever, Edward was grateful of Oswald’s acumen. He wondered if, working alone, he might have landed back in Arkham weeks ago.

 _The loony bin is right where you belong, kiddo,_ Kristen snickered. _Let your doubts get the better of you, and that’s right where you’ll end up. Don’t worry. I promise I’ll keep you company._

“Be quiet,” Edward muttered, which caused Oswald, Gabriel, and Vee to look at him almost in unison.

“Are you feeling all right?” Oswald asked, covering Edward’s hand. “Can Olga get you something?”

“No,” Edward sighed, searching his thoughts for a response, and none came. “It was…never mind.”

“You look pale,” Vee said, catching Oswald’s eye to make sure she had leave. “Maybe get some air?”

Edward considered why she might say something like that, realizing that Caroline must be outside. She’d probably been the one to drive Gabriel and Vee from their surveillance rendezvous.

“I’ll do that,” Edward said, excusing himself by way of a glance at Oswald. “Carry on, don’t wait up.”

Outside in the driveway, peculiarly, Caroline was smoking and pacing like the devil was at her heels.

“Can I help?” tried Edward, when all stock pleasantries seemed insufficient. “You look…stressed.”

“No shit, Mr. N,” she said, stopping dead in her tracks. “This thing I’ve gotta take you and Mr. C to do later? I’m not gonna lie anymore. It gives me the heebie-jeebies like all the rest. One or two hits, I thought—fine. At least in theory, this is blood for libel. Who in our business _hasn’t_ done that.” She blew smoke, fixing him with an uncharacteristically hard look. “But, before I know it, things stretch into…three, four, five, _six_.”

Edward gaped at her, uncertain of how to react in the face of her rapidly deteriorating unflappability.

“Listen, Edward,” Caroline said, using his given name for the first time ever. “There’s revenge, and there’s fuckin’ unhealthy obsession. I wanna be wrong, but I think I’m looking at the latter.”

“I…don’t think we pay you to be this frank,” was all that Edward could manage. “Why are you—”

“Because you need to move on,” Caroline said. “Be the Riddler, by all means—be _yourself_. But by the time that whisper makes it out of the Narrows and into the press, you’re toast.” She pitched her cigarette onto the gravel. “I’ll take you wherever you need to go, because that’s what Mr. C pays me to do. I’ll even charge him overtime for this therapy session if it’ll ease your mind.”

Edward stared at the smoking butt, unable to form a response. “You don’t understand why I need to do this,” he said haltingly. “It’s not just…for Oswald, it’s…also for me. To prove to myself that I’m…”

“If this is about determining if you live up to Mr. C’s regard,” Caroline said, “God in _heaven_.”

Edward fled back inside, leaving her standing right where she was. Some good the air had done him.


	22. Practicum

Oswald dismissed Gabriel and Vee, satisfied with the quality of their surveillance. Jim Gordon's current absence was nothing short of a blessing. Had he been on the case with Harvey Bullock and Lucius Fox, Oswald was sure he would've needed to allocate twice the manpower.

There was a sudden shouting match in the entryway, in which Edward's voice was the loudest.

Rising from his chair, Oswald rushed to investigate just as Vee followed Gabriel outside, slamming the door furiously behind them. Her last utterance sounded something like _swear I had no idea she'd try that, you paranoid fucker_.

Edward stood tense and simmering at the foot of the stairs, fists clenched, eyes fixed on the door.

“Ed, tell me what happened,” said Oswald, quietly, approaching with his free hand extended.

“Vee sent me out there, and Caroline was waiting,” Edward seethed, staring at Oswald's hand for a few seconds before taking it. “She took her best crack at psychoanalyzing me.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” Oswald said, letting Edward draw his hand up to press it over his heart as he squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to get his breathing under control. “Start over.”

Edward nodded, clutching Oswald's hand to his chest, the rhythmic tap of his fingers mirroring his frenetic pulse.

“When I went out, she was smoking and pacing,” he said with an effort. “She told me that these...extracurricular activities of mine...creep her out. That I'm unhealthily obsessed. That I need to stop before I get caught,” he went on, his eyes snapping open. “She called me _Edward_.”

“Seems only fair, given how familiar the two of you have become,” said Oswald, cautiously, his mind racing. “ _However_ —if you feel that the manner in which she expressed her concern was disrespectful, I will fire her without hesitation. Your safety is my primary concern.”

Edward seemed dazed. In the short space since he'd opened his eyes, he hadn't blinked once.

“Is it, Oswald?” he asked with hesitation, his glazed expression chillingly unreadable. “Really?”

Oswald flexed his hand beneath Edward's grasp, fingertips digging into Edward's brocade tie.

“Edward,” he said carefully, trying not to let his terror show, “I think you're dissociating.”

Shaking, Edward drew Oswald's hand up to his mouth, lips forming the semblance of an apologetic kiss. He closed his eyes, his breath escaping him on a pained sound, finally blinking at Oswald.

“Forgive me for saying that,” he managed, his voice devastatingly strained. “It's just that, for a moment, I thought—she may be right, and you haven't even tried to stop me.”

The spell broken, Oswald used Edward's grasp to tug Edward forward and into his arms. He let his cane clatter to the floor as he hugged Edward more fiercely than he ever had before.

“When I said I supported you in this endeavor, I meant it,” he said. “I want you to have closure.”

Edward clutched at him frantically—gasping again, as if all the air in the world were not enough.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course. How foolish of me, I...” His heartbeat had calmed. “Thank you.”

“That said,” Oswald cautioned, feeling his own pulse escalate, uncertain of what had just happened, “if _you_ feel like you need to stop, then...maybe you should. Just a thought.”

Edward shook his head as they drew apart, his hands braced at Oswald's elbows, calmly smiling.

“I'll finish what I started,” he said evenly, leaning forward to peck Oswald on the lips. “For us.”

“If that's what you want, then of course,” Oswald told him as reassuringly as he could. “But please know that I by no means _ever_ required—”

“I never required you to kill the men you killed for me,” Edward pointed out. “But you still did.”

Oswald pressed one hand to his temple, shaking his head.

“Perhaps we ought to scale back on extravagant murders as tokens of affection,” he suggested. “The practice seemed all well and good during our courtship phase, but now it's just stressing you out.”

Edward laughed, sounding like himself again. “Have I mentioned I love your sense of humor?”

“Yes, well,” Oswald sighed, brushing off his persistent unease, adjusting Edward's tie. “We have a few hours until sunset, so perhaps I ought to talk Olga into serving dinner slightly early.”

“I'd like that,” Edward reassured him, fetching Oswald's cane from the floor. “Very much.”

If Olga had been up to her usual aggressive eavesdropping, then she made no indication. She chattered to them intermittently while she brought out dishes one at a time—side salad, corn chowder, rolls warm from the oven, and chicken pot pie. Oswald pretended not to know that most of it had been frozen, understanding why she had opted for relative haste.

After eating—if, on Edward's side, Oswald could even call it that, given he'd scarcely touched anything beyond his soup and half a roll—they went upstairs to bathe and dress. 

Oswald tried his best not to take offense at the fact Edward wanted to use the tub alone, but he supposed that Edward's level of agitation required a wide berth. He sat at the dressing table alone while Edward bathed, deciding that all he really needed was an accessories overhaul.

He switched out his duck-egg blue tie for patterned black silk, stripping his cufflinks back from gold to matte steel. He couldn't afford to draw attention, to reflect even a passing sliver of light.

Nodding off with the origami penguin tucked between his fingers, Oswald startled awake at the sensation of hands on his shoulders. He opened his eyes, blinking at Edward's reflection behind him. If Oswald was shadow, then Edward was every glittering green city light for miles.

“Hello, handsome,” said Oswald, mesmerized as he watched Edward's reflection snatch the penguin from between his index and middle fingers and tuck it in Oswald's breast pocket.

“Hello yourself,” Edward said, withdrawing Oswald's gunmetal pocket square in the same gesture. He kissed it before tucking it in his own breast pocket. “Showtime.”

Caroline helped them transfer Edward's supplies from the laboratory to the limousine, although Oswald couldn't help but notice she lacked the usual spring in her step. While they waited impatiently for Edward to come out with the last of his things—Caroline smoking up front, Oswald lounging in the back—he decided to try his luck at prodding her for information.

“Thank you for tolerating Ed's whims,” ventured Oswald, as apologetically as he could manage.

Caroline blew the next puff more forcefully, twisting up to peer at him through the partition.

“Lemme guess,” she said, her tone curiously flat. “He tried to get me fired for giving him my two cents' worth, is that it? His alcohol tolerance isn't the only thing you've gotta work on.”

“No, he did not,” Oswald replied. “But if he had felt in any way threatened, you understand...”

“Oh, I understand all right,” Caroline sighed, flicking ash at him. “Loud and clear, Mr. C.”

Oswald peered out the open door, hoping that he had another minute before Edward emerged.

“Listen,” he said to Caroline, hoping she would read the urgency in his tone. “As much as I hate to admit it, you're right. He's beyond the pale. This has to stop. Tonight is the end of the line, and what I'd like to know is...” He swallowed nervously, catching her eye in the rearview mirror, lighting a cigarette. “Can I take your tirade of earlier as a sign that you're with me?”

“Hell freakin' _yes_ ,” said Caroline, sounding so relieved she might cry. “What's the plan? Do we let him go through with this one as a last hurrah, or does this shit end _now_?”

“To his way of thinking, there were precisely six punishable offenses between the December fifth and sixth issues of the _Gazette_ ,” Oswald said. “Two editorials, four letters to the editor. If we don't let him complete the set, I guarantee you we're all headed to hell in a hand-basket.”

“So we cut him off after this,” replied Caroline, nodding. “Drug his ass and put him to bed if need be? I think I've still got some of those darts somewhere, or maybe Vee—”

“Nothing so extreme or vulgar,” Oswald said, cringing inwardly as he thought of the sleeping pills. “If anything, I'll try talking to him and...work from there,” he added hastily, settling back in his seat as Edward came out of the house and joined him. “Are we all set?”

“Yep,” Edward agreed, dumping the coil of nylon-covered wire and several other items on the floor. He closed the car door and sat close to Oswald, leaning in for a kiss. “Right as rain.”

_If only_ , Oswald thought, staring out the window as Edward leaned against him for the majority of the ride, running his index finger listlessly over Edward's tie pin. _Oh, Ed_.

Caroline left them around the side of the sciences building with their designated ingress. Edward's facility with lock-picking never ceased to impress Oswald, no matter how many times he'd seen it. He watched Edward drop through the basement-level window, ungainly but quiet. He handed Edward's supplies, which they'd shoved in a duffel bag en route, down to him.

Edward reached inside his jacket and pulled out their earpieces, fiddling with the impressively tiny pieces of tech until he was sure they were both functioning. He stuck his in place, handing the other up to Oswald. His black-gloved touch lingered as he passed it off, a caress.

“You'll let me know when you see him approach the building?” asked Edward, blowing a kiss.

“Yes, Ed,” Oswald promised, straightening up, sticking in the earpiece. “Just like we rehearsed.”

He closed the window with his own [green-gloved hand](http://irisbleufic.tumblr.com/post/161011710440/thanks-for-prompting-asks-noticed-a-detail-thing), yanking the lever down hard to reseal it.

Caroline stepped out of the limousine, pitching her latest cigarette butt. “Do we wait here?”

“You do,” Oswald confirmed, making his way toward the mouth of the alley. “Until you _don't_. I, on the other hand, need to find some kind of vantage-point from which I can see Dyson's approach.”

“You've got your ear-thingie in, right?” she asked. “Stay in the car with me. We can see the sidewalk from here. Ed said he'll be coming from thataway, right? No sense in you putting your ass on the line any more than you have to,” she said. “Unless that's...part of the deal, I mean.”

Oswald hadn't considered a scenario in which one of them got caught and the other did not.

“Having someone on the outside is preferable, I'd imagine,” he admitted, knowing Caroline remembered that all too well, “but I'd sooner go into the trenches with him. Wait here.”

Oswald positioned himself across the street in a run-down phone booth, resenting the smelly, stuffy space down to his very core. Edward's voice crackled over the earpiece, startling him.

“Setup complete,” he whispered, a faint hiss of static. “That took far less time than I thought.”

“You said to expect Dyson any time between...well, now and an hour from now,” Oswald said.

“Yes,” Edward confirmed. “His camelhair coat's ugly, as is his houndstooth scarf. Can't miss him.”

“How you never noticed your fashion fixation before now is beyond me,” Oswald chided, doing a double-take as a man who fit Dyson's description stepped up to the curb in front of the phone booth, looked both ways, and crossed the street. “Uh, Ed? Your target has arrived.”

“Excellent,” Edward hissed, background noise of glove against glove distinctive. “ _Quiet_.”

Oswald sighed, tapping along the filthy panes of glass as he watched Dyson enter the building. 

For the next ten minutes, the airwaves were silent. He could discern the occasional brush or scrape that indicated Edward was moving. How or where, it was impossible to tell. Eventually, one of the noises resolved itself as a door opening and closing. Oswald held his breath.

“Greetings, Professor,” came the sound of Edward's voice. Confident, pitched dangerously low.

“ _Oh_!” cried Dyson, in distress; Oswald couldn't suppress a sneer. “Somebody help!”

The fractured sound of Edward cocking his pistol was unmistakable.

“The building's empty,” he said, his impressive bravado intact. “No one's coming to help. Have a seat.”

“Wh—Who _are_ you?” Dyson stammered over a metallic creak, doing as he'd been told.

“That—” Edward clanged his gun twice against something that was _also_ metallic, causing Oswald to flinch at the screeching feedback “—is an excellent question. _But_ , I get to ask the first one.” The next sound indicated that one of them had set something down; Oswald, at the thought of Edward relinquishing his weapon, started railing at him internally.

“I can fill a room or just one heart. Others may have me, but I cannot be shared. What am I?” 

Dyson's hesitation was so thick, his confusion so profound, that Oswald marveled at it. “What?”

“It's a riddle,” said Edward—frustrated, deadpan, undershot with anger. “Answer the riddle!”

“Uh, I,” Dyson stammered; it was then that Oswald realized he posed no threat. “Knowledge?”

“Knowledge can't be shared, Professor?” retorted Edward, his disappointment growing. “ _Really_? You are the chair of a chemistry department. You've spent a career—” Oswald flinched again, marveling at Edward's lung capacity “—sharing knowledge! _No_!”

Edward groaned, and something in his vicinity gave as if suffering beneath his weight. Oswald imagined him leaning with palms braced against the nearest substantial object, eyes shut tight, staving off the meltdown he'd just barely escaped earlier. Leaving him alone had been a mistake.

Oswald exited the phone booth with ferocious resolve as Edward collected himself and said, “I apologize. I'm settling into myself these days, but it's a complex transition.” He crossed the street as Edward fiddled with something, perhaps the coil of wire, stationing himself at the foot of the building's stairs. “I can be a member of a group, but I can never blend in. What am I?”

“I, uh,” Dyson gulped, hesitating longer than Oswald had on his failed confession. “A shadow?”

“The answer is an individual!” Edward shouted. “ _Duh_! I expected more.” Silence, punctuated by the squeak of Edward's shoes. “But then, none of the others did very well, either.”

“The others?” Dyson echoed numbly as Oswald, steeling himself, started up the stone staircase.

Edward turned on what sounded like either a blowtorch or a Bunsen burner, causing Oswald's heart to skip a beat; too soon, too _soon_ , and he was off-script. “Oh, you'd know them. The stars of Gotham's intellectual and artistic constellation,” he added, his gloves squeaking against something smooth and unyielding. “Fallen stars now.”

“Why are you doing this?” Dyson demanded, sounding oddly resigned for a man in his position.

Edward sighed, and something rattled ominously.

“I can't help but wonder why you don't seem to remember what you did back in December. _Naughty_. You should've just stayed in your lane and left philosophizing to the Humanities. You see, I should really thank you for the pen-lashing, the more I think about it. Now, I know who I am—in more ways than one. It's how to... _be_ one of those facets, so to speak...that's eluding me.” He hesitated, his fingertips tapping against something unidentifiable. “I seek…advancement, personal growth, in relation to where I stand. A point of reference.” He clapped once, sharply. “I feel your every move; I know your every thought. I'm with you from birth, and I'll see you _rot_. What am I?”

Dyson sounded hysterical as Oswald, panting, reached the top of the staircase. “I don't know!”

“Well, that's just too bad,” said Edward, sounding like he'd recovered his composure sufficiently to act with poise; Oswald hesitated with his hand on the door, realizing only too late that it was still locked from the inside. Edward's peculiar, bird-like whistle sent his earpiece into static.

“No! _No_!” Dyson pleaded, obviously horrified at Edward's next sequence of actions.

Oswald held his breath, peering into the murky light of the building's atrium as he heard Edward twist open one valve after another. His squeaking footsteps swift, Edward retreated just as they'd agreed, letting the laboratory door slam behind him.

Edward strode into view on the other side of the glass, a manic-eyed apparition in emerald.

“Oswald, we need to _run_ ,” he said, pushing his way through the double doors. He caught Oswald's hand, tugging him along as he made for the stairs. “I told you to stay on the sidewalk!”

“And miss all the fun?” asked Oswald, breathlessly, as they stumbled their way down to the pavement. “I've been able to restrain you thus far when it comes to pyrotechnics, but I have the feeling—”

Edward didn't even look back as they rushed, arm in arm, across the street to where Caroline had wisely moved the limousine at some point during the proceedings. The tension in him suggested that he wanted to, desperately.

_No nod to Lot's wife_ , Oswald thought, listening as the dome exploded. _Not here_.

“That was quite the show, Ed,” he remarked as Caroline ushered them into the back of the car, slamming the door for emphasis. “I only wish I hadn't been stuck imagining the majority.”

Edward eyed him inscrutably as Caroline pulled into the street, drawing Oswald's gloved hand up to his lips.

“I improvised a little,” he admitted, pressing a kiss between Oswald's knuckles.

“It was a nice touch,” Oswald admitted, for the first time hesitant to be too effusive in his praise.

“In any case, I think I passed the practicum with flying colors,” Edward gushed, hugging him.

“Whatever that is,” Oswald sighed, patting Edward's arms, “yes. I think it's...safe to say so.”

In defiance of Oswald's edict against trying any such thing under reckless circumstances, Edward spent the majority of the ride with Oswald's cock in his mouth. Insistent, _insatiable_.

Oswald came, biting on the side of his right wrist, leaving marks in Edward's old glove. He used the same hand, refusing to remove the green leather, to mercilessly jerk Edward off less than half a mile from home. Edward came _screaming_ , Oswald's left palm clapped over his mouth.

He was scarcely presentable upon their arrival, and Oswald's hands were conspicuously bare.

“Go to _bed_ , Mr. N,” Caroline said, slamming the back door of the limousine as she shooed them toward the house. “You look like you're crashin' hard off the end of this one.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” said Oswald, nudging Edward ahead of him. “Good night.”

Once they were safely upstairs, Oswald stripped Edward methodically of his outer layers, of every last accoutrement he wore. He left Edward in his underthings, stripping himself. 

For the duration, Edward sat silent on the edge of the mattress, miraculously unprotesting. He reached for Oswald only once he, too, wore as little as Edward was now wearing.

“Feedback?” he asked tentatively, kissing the side of Oswald's neck as they tumbled back against the pillows. He tangled their legs and tugged up the covers, vibrating expectantly.

“I stand corrected,” Oswald yawned, rubbing Edward's back. “Fellatio is fine in that context.”

Edward smacked Oswald's backside as hard as he dared. “You know that's not what I meant.”

“We're not discussing it until tomorrow,” said Oswald, sternly. “Bed's no place for a debriefing.”

As had been the case after Edward's previous five hits, both of them slept as soundly as the dead.

After leisurely morning in which Edward—as per his drowsy, but insistent request—spent most of his time blindfolded with his hands tied to the headboard, they headed downstairs to breakfast. Edward had, for some God-forsaken reason, kept the old lilac tie draped around his neck. It clashed with his dressing gown, and even Olga told him as much.

Bewildered over his glass of orange juice, Oswald watched as Edward ignored the majority of his food in favor of rooting through the drawer in front of him until he'd found the scissors.

“I want to find out what the pressure of a blindfold is like if I can still _see_ ,” he explained, busy cutting what could only be eye-holes in the tie. “It's...stimulating. Maybe sometimes I'd like to have that, but be able to see you while you're...” He cleared his throat as Olga came in and retrieved Oswald's shell-strewn egg cup. “You get the idea,” he said, removing his glasses in haste, donning the modified strip of fabric.

Oswald emptied his glass, considering the sight. He'd lost his appetite, and little though he wished to admit it, Edward in what was effectively a purple domino mask did dreadful things to his resolve as far as behaving like a functional, businesslike adult for the remainder of the day.

“Lovely though you are,” he said, wiping his mouth, “I want you to take that back upstairs, get dressed, and then wait for me in the study with that absolute fright of a three-dimensional Pinterest while _I_ get cleaned up. You asked for feedback.”

Edward swallowed, blanching behind his improvised mask, but he left the room eagerly enough.

They crossed paths in the hall when Oswald finally made his way upstairs, Edward wrapped in a soaking wet towel and Oswald stripped down to nothing. Edward caught him around the waist for several seconds, just holding him.

“I didn't use up all the hot water,” he said, reverently nuzzling Oswald's cheek. “I promise.”

By the time Oswald was clean and dressed, he hoped he'd sufficiently worked himself up to a point from which he could give Edward the requisite talking-to without it all going to shit. Caroline, he realized, had proved adept at this sort of thing. She'd successfully gotten Edward to doubt his course of action, and Oswald, foolishly, had talked him back into it.

He walked into their erstwhile study with his tie carelessly knotted and his hair still wet. He startled Edward where he stood before the board of six portraits, five of which were crossed out, with his favorite marker in hand. He watched Edward draw an _X_ over Dyson.

“Last night was the proof in the pudding, don't you think?” Edward asked. “I passed the test.”

Oswald opened his mouth and shut it again, remembering Edward's comment about a practicum.

“We ought to be celebrating,” he said by way of indirect agreement. “Your crowning glory. And now, my love,” he added, snatching the marker out of Edward's hand, “it's time to rest.”

“How can I do that,” asked Edward, as if taking Oswald's words as a joke, “when I'm just getting started?”

Oswald felt his mouth tighten in spite of the non-threatening air he'd been struggling to maintain.

“If this is about your Riddler business, so _help_ me,” he said. “You live up to the name.”

Edward gave him a dubious look, something of the previous day's Caroline-induced doubt creeping back into his haunted eyes. It was an indecipherable portent to say the least.

“Tell me, Oswald,” he said, picking a piece of lint off Oswald's shoulder, flicking it aside with distaste, “ _is_ that who you see beside you when we're standing in the dark?”

“I see the man I love, Edward,” insisted Oswald, plaintively. “I see the man I _married_.”

“That doesn't answer my question,” replied Edward, in rising consternation. “Do you see—”

“I don't see _the Riddler_ first and foremost, no!” Oswald snapped, taking him by the shoulders, going for broke. “I see my partner, or at least I used to, and I _miss_ —”

Edward made a frustrated noise, seeming more pensive than dejected. 

“Caroline was onto something,” he said. “I've been going about this all wrong. A good riddle reveals the asker.” He pulled away from Oswald, considering the pin-board. “To solve it is to solve the mystery of the person posing it. Knowing who I am and how to _be_...” He trailed off, folding his arms across his chest, lost in thought. “Those are separate things.”

“If you're on some kind of weird...I don't know, trying-to-out-villain-me kick,” Oswald floundered, making a grab for Edward's shoulder as he started to pace, “I can assure you there's no reason you ought to feel like...” He considered his next words carefully, wondering if he'd been going about this all wrong. “Ed, villains do not have teachers. I made myself into the Penguin when I threw Fish Mooney off a building. I didn't have anyone's help. While you've certainly had my _support_ , you're as self-determined as I am. Do you see?”

“Oh, how interesting,” said Edward, coming to a standstill, as if he hadn't even heard Oswald. “Perhaps it's not that I don't know how to _be_ that aspect of myself, but that I don't have...” He met Oswald's eyes, apprehensive for the briefest of moments, before settling back into his previous train of thought. “Oswald, I need an enemy. One who's not one of yours.”

Oswald gaped at him, at a loss. “Please don't take this the wrong way, but that is _not_ —”

“Villains tend to be defined by those who try to stop them,” said Edward, excitedly, unknotting Oswald's tie before Oswald could even protest. “And I know the perfect—

“ _Ed_ ,” Oswald said, watching uselessly as Edward redid it, “think twice before you say—”

“Lucius Fox,” announced Edward, slyly, tucking Oswald's neatly-done tie back into his waistcoat. “Isn't it obvious? Symmetry at its finest, since he fills my old shoes.”

Enough, Oswald decided, was _enough_. He bristled, swatting Edward's hands away.

“May I remind you that this started out as a desire for vengeance?” he demanded. “You've _gotten_ your revenge, Ed, and nobody appreciates it more than I do! What's changed?”

Edward took a few startled steps backward, eyes gone round behind his glasses, distinctly aghast.

“It's like Olga said,” he explained, as if lecturing a difficult student. “This is a game, Oswald. _Your_ game before, but now it's mine, too. And I've acquired a taste for playing.”

Smiling as if he understood, Oswald squashed his sense of defeat down as far as it could go. 

“That's as logical an explanation as I could have hoped for,” he said, masking his sarcasm.

When Edward kissed him, he matched Edward's fervor, helplessly wondering where he'd gone wrong. The only sure bet, he realized, was that Caroline Fowler was going to kill him. 

For the sake of all parties involved, he could only hope that she'd take pity and do it quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For curious and interested parties, there's a bonus ficlet from Caroline Fowler's perspective, [**_Dues to Pay_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10991316), that's set smack in the middle of this installment (on the evening of the Dyson job; it's what happens once Caroline gets home for the night).


	23. Next Time

For a Tuesday evening, it was quiet. Oswald had retired early after complaining of particularly fierce pain in his leg.

Feeling guilty for the rigors, both crime-related and otherwise, through which he'd put Oswald the week before, Edward had given him a massage in front of the fire before seeing him off. Oswald, effusively appreciative, had tried to tempt Edward to bed.

Once he was sure Olga had departed for the evening, Edward folded that day's _Gazette_ open to the appropriate page, rose from the sofa, and made his way to the laboratory. No sooner had he closed the door behind him than a flash of movement near the microscope caused him to shriek.

“Is only me, Edward,” said Olga, turning from her methodical dusting of the work-top. “Relax.”

“ _Jeez_ , would you give a guy some warning!” Edward snapped, tossing the newspaper down on his desk, opening his laptop in perfunctory fury. “You said you were heading out.”

“ _Da_ ,” Olga agreed mildly, continuing with her self-assigned chore, “but I did not say to where.”

“If Oswald put you up to this, then he's not being very subtle,” said Edward, following the URL in the newspaper advertisement with his left index finger while typing it right-handedly into his browser. “Or maybe you're just following through on your threat to help me out of the woods?”

Olga shrugged, nonchalantly cleaning around his various beakers and tubes of hazardous substances.

“It is only the woods if you are still popping pills and not sleeping,” she remarked, looking unimpressed as Edward removed the pillbox from his waistcoat pocket and rattled it. “Since last week, which you said was last time, you have been awake more nights. I am suspicious.”

“There were enough for one more week,” Edward reminded her, opening the box. He rolled the single remaining pill into his hand, ceremoniously holding it up for her to inspect. “Last hurrah.”

Olga rolled her eyes, a mannerism doubtless adopted from Oswald. “Hurrah for nothing,” she retorted.

Edward placed the pill between his lips, reached for his lukewarm tea left over from the night before, and hit _ENTER_. He'd imagined that the kind of novelty communications outfit that offered singing telegrams would have a badly designed website, and he'd been correct.

“Take drugs to do crossword?” Olga asked, coming over to stand before his desk, nodding at the paper. “Seems like a waste,” she said, snatching the teacup out of Edward's hand once he'd used the remainder of his tea to down the capsule. “I will put this in kitchen and go. Good night.”

“Good night, Olga,” said Edward, with feigned cheer, scanning the FAQ section. “Please drive safely,” he added tonelessly as she shut the door behind her. Flipping the newspaper, he studied yet another advertisement. He'd first seen it five days before, and he hadn't stopped plotting since.

As a child, he'd followed chess competitions obsessively. This one was local—small potatoes, of course, not even regional—and it was being held all day Wednesday in the GPL Annex atrium.

Edward had just under thirteen hours to compose a telegram and sneak out to do some complex wiring.

He found the submission link without difficulty, selecting the _SEND INVOICE_ option in lieu of entering credit card information. That had been another requirement: locate a company so desperate for business that it needn't receive up-front payment. Between spoofing his IP address and providing a false postal one for mailing, the telegram's source would be untraceable.

Frowning, Edward ticked the radio-button beside _HAPPY BIRTHDAY_. The tune had generic enough scansion that it would work for what he'd come up with, provided the performer was creative.

He stared at the blank submission field, index fingers steepled against his mouth. He'd been turning the beginnings of a rhyme over in his head since breakfast, to such a point of distraction that Oswald had taken to asking him, every five minutes for the rest of the day, if he was all right.

Even at his most irritating, Oswald meant well. Edward smiled at the affirmation and began to type.

 _Six masters have passed;_  
_there's about to be more—_  
_a king, a queen,_  
_and their corps._

_The key to saving them_  
_is on this card,_  
_so won't you please help them_  
_by not making this hard._

He'd come up short at the end. At best, it sounded amateurish; at worst, like contrarian innuendo. 

Grimacing, Edward selected the _CUSTOM CARD IMAGE_ radio-button, and then located the scan he'd made of his painstaking freehand Knight's Tour diagram. Lacking the iconic black-and-white squares beneath it, the arrows' trajectory looked suitably arcane.

 _Each square visited only once_ , he thought, waiting for the upload to complete. _But is this Tour open or closed?_ he wondered, knowing it would all depend on how Fox decided to play.

The laboratory door swung open as he hit _SUBMIT_ , all but making him jump out of his skin.

“You had better just be playing Minesweeper,” scolded Oswald, grumpy and exhausted, limping up to Edward's desk without his cane. He rested both palms against the edge and leaned forward, peering around to inspect Edward's screen. “Your submission has been received! Thank you for your business,” he read off, mouthing the URL in a moment of puzzlement. “Ed, _what_ —”

“Fine, I'll explain!” Edward blurted, realizing he'd hit the first jittery pangs of his high. “There's that chess tournament at GPL tomorrow, so I've got to go rig up some rudimentary shock-and-awe electrical stuff—you know, nothing complicated or fatal, just enough to give them a scare. And I realized I'd need to get GCPD's finest on-site, so I thought that maybe musical delivery would—”

For about three seconds, Oswald looked so confused and furious that Edward scooted back.

“Okay,” said Oswald, eyes closed, taking a deep breath. He spread his hands against the desk, lifting them and tapping the mahogany with both palms. “I'm going to ask you to start all over again.”

Edward swallowed, grounding himself. “I sent a singing telegram to Lucius Fox with hints at a fatal attack on tomorrow's GPL chess tournament,” he summarized. “Nobody's actually going to die, although they might need to be treated for second-degree burns.”

“What have you _done_?” Oswald demanded, sagging against the desk. “Without telling me?”

“Well, the anonymous telegram riddle has been arranged,” Edward clarified, ticking the item on his index finger, “so that leaves sneaking into GPL before dawn to do the wiring.” He ticked the second item on his middle finger, resisting the urge to flip Oswald off for being deliberately obtuse.

Oswald blinked rapidly, as if he'd only just noticed the mess of receivers, wire, and other supplies at Edward's elbow on the desk. He picked up the remote control and stared at it, flipping the switch.

“I cannot reiterate enough,” he said, tone dripping with sarcasm, “what a bad idea this is.”

Edward glared at him, experiencing a moment of drug-intensified anger. Despite all the hypocrisies in which Oswald regularly engaged, one aimed _in Edward's direction_ was unheard-of.

“You were wrong, though,” he said, his frantic, near-directionless thoughts snagging on last week's conversation. “You did have help in your transformation. Don't deny it.”

“I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about,” Oswald said, disdain giving way to concern.

“Remember that time when I told you,” replied Edward, calculatingly, “that penguins eat fish?”

“Of course,” said Oswald, tersely, setting the remote control back down. “And I never forgot it.”

“I helped you become the Penguin whether you knew it or not,” replied Edward, leaning forward, tugging the somewhat tattered origami specimen out of Oswald's dressing-gown pocket, “and, whether you _like_ it or not, you're going to continue to help me. That's what partners _do_.”

“That sounds an awful lot like emotional blackmail,” Oswald said. “Do you understand the concept?”

“I understand that you're afraid for my safety, Oswald,” Edward said, kissing the penguin's beak before tucking it back whence it had come. “You always have been, and I appreciate it. But trust is a two-way street. You said that during your interview with Hearst.”

“Ed, how am I supposed to trust you not to get hauled into GCPD—and then, inevitably, _Arkham_ —when you panic at the first sign things aren't going the way you planned? I'm not _blaming_ you; this is merely an observation. You can't change the way your mind works. You move heaven and earth to accommodate my difficulties, so why shouldn't I accommodate yours?”

“I understand your concern, and I'm grateful,” said Edward, closing the laptop. “I even prefer to have you with me, for all of the reasons you cite. I only tried to go behind your back because you've been so... _reticent_ since Dyson. Please, Oswald. My future endeavors can and _will_ be useful to you. This is a different kind of trial run, and a crucial one. I know that you're not a scientist, but can you appreciate the importance of repeated successes? That's how experiments work.”

Oswald smiled guardedly, chin tilted in acquiescence.

“Point eloquently made,” he allowed. “However, drawing direct fire from Captain Bullock and Sidekick Fox? _Not_ useful.”

“Go back to bed,” said Edward, leaning forward to kiss Oswald's forehead. “I'll be home by dawn.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Oswald muttered, catching Edward's jaw, holding him still for a kiss on the lips. “Whatever this—this elaborate _prank_ is, you're not executing it alone. Tomorrow, then?”

“Yes,” Edward confirmed. “The tournament starts at nine o'clock in the morning, but we should let them play for a while before stationing ourselves in that gallery above the atrium. There's seating, so you'll be fine.”

“Wonderful,” Oswald deadpanned, spinning on his heel to hobble out. “I'll be sure to bring a snack.”

Edward hadn't driven in so long that it felt strange to trundle outside in a heavy coat and gloves with his duffel bag of supplies. At least Oswald had broken him of the suitcase-and-trunk habit; while less stylish, fabric modes of conveyance were much easier to dispose of.

After shoving everything in the back seat, Edward switched out the license plate of Oswald's spare car, a sleek black Volkswagen, for one he meant to jettison immediately after making the trip. Although this particular vehicle was on the road seldom enough, he wasn't taking any chances.

Edward was astonished at how easy breaking into and entering _these_ particular municipal premises turned out to be. The Annex wasn't as well secured as the main building, and, to be honest, he was grateful not to be _there_. The likelihood of running into staff was slim, but still...

“Don't say a thing,” warned Edward, pushing the bloody smoke-tendrils back to the edges of his consciousness, sweeping his flashlight across the tables neatly set up with timers and chessboards.

 _Wasn't going to_ , Kristen whispered. _But I can still arrange for you to see a ghost._

“Not interested,” said Edward, his voice echoing as loudly in the atrium as his footsteps. “So you can either scram or help me with this. Not a very appealing set of options, is it?”

 _I bet you wish you'd brought Oswald_ , hissed Kristen, retreating as quickly as she'd arrived. _Don't forget to leave those digits. It'd be a shame if you didn't get to use your burner phone._

The job was interminably dull, but at least it provided a sufficient distraction from any other hallucinations that might have been hovering. Table after table after _table_ , he affixed one custom apparatus after another. It was three in the morning before he managed to test the remote, _four_ before he managed to attend to Kristen's reminder and hurriedly depart.

At five forty-five, Edward slipped into bed, exhausted, in nothing but his socks. He scarcely registered the sleep-muddled kiss that Oswald ( _naked, warm, sweet_ ) pressed against his cheek.

“Cold feet?” Oswald mumbled affectionately, running his bare toes over Edward's covered ones.

“Huh,” Edward sighed noncommittally, already dozing off. “No? _Mmm_. Maybe? Yes...”

He woke up hours and hours later to blinding sunlight through the antique window-glass and Oswald asking, softly and politely, if Edward would like him to take care of that. Take care of what? _Oh_. Oswald slipped his hand beneath the covers, fondling between Edward's legs.

Edward nodded in spite of how drowsy he felt. Unusual, to wake up with—had he been dreaming?

Smug, Oswald sucked a hickey just above Edward's collarbone before ducking beneath the sheets.

After a late breakfast service in which Olga spoke to them scarcely at all for having come downstairs flushed and short of breath, Edward assented to a shared bath and asked Oswald to dress him. Semblance of control was important to Oswald; above all things, Edward understood _that_.

While Oswald put the finishing touches on his own ensemble ( _gold cufflinks, signet ring, navy tie with red polka-dots_ ), Edward fetched the remote control from where he'd left it on the dressing table in the early hours of morning. He slipped it in his jacket pocket, refusing to look in the mirror.

“Whatever it is I'm in for,” Oswald said, lightly clasping Edward's elbows while he set about removing several miniscule pieces of lint from Oswald's lapel, “I hope it's worth the price of admission.”

“Give me a kiss,” Edward replied, rewarded too quickly with an armful of Oswald, “and you'll see.”

Outside in the driveway, Caroline wasn't her usual chipper self. She hadn't been for the better part of a week, and Edward wondered how much the mysterious absence of her Pall Malls had to do with it.

“Are you trying to quit?” Edward tried by way of conversation once they'd gotten on the road, curious.

“[Yeah](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10991316), and lemme tell you what,” she sighed wistfully, “these goddamn patches don't do _shit_.”

“Oh,” Oswald said, hastily withdrawing his hand from his jacket, leaving the Dunhills. “Condolences.”

The atrium gallery with its small-scale auditorium seating was easily reached by the same back stairwell that Edward had used the night before. In the event they were noticed by any other spectators, he was confident that they'd pass for nothing more than civic-minded former mayor and chief of staff. If indeed they weren't alone, the remote control never even needed to leave Edward's pocket.

They found the space dim, empty, and filled with a percussive chorus of chesspieces and timers from below. Edward settled Oswald in the nearest front-row seat, stepping up to the railing to peer down.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, ignoring a sudden fit of nerves, knowing full well that Oswald had no interest in chess unless Edward happened to be the one across the board from him.

“Like I had a choice?” asked Oswald, his smile affectionately sarcastic, both hands poised on his cane.

“I tried to spare you,” Edward reminded him, turning his focus back on the action-packed minutiae below. “But I think you'll thank me,” he added, watching as Oswald's regard shifted to cautious admiration while he withdrew the remote control from his pocket. “This is going to be electrifying.”

“Still,” Oswald remarked, getting to his feet, tone mildly reproachful, “I almost wish I had popcorn.”

Edward frowned at one player near the center of the room, observing a particularly careless move.

“Knight to Queen 3,” he suggested after the fact, unable to bite his tongue. “Mate in two!”

“ _Shhh_!” hissed the smartly-dressed monitor, making her rounds. “Quiet, please!”

“Oh, honestly,” Edward muttered under his breath. “They call anyone a grandmaster these days.”

Oswald stepped close to him, setting a firm hand on Edward's arm, as if he'd reached a decision.

“I know it's a bit late, and also redundant,” he said, “but _can_ we discuss why you're doing this?”

Edward shrugged innocently, donning his best we’ve-already-been-over-this smile. “I've told you why.”

Oswald sighed heavily, turning far more serious than Edward had bargained for. “The real reason.”

Edward's apprehension, until that moment held meticulously in check, flared unbearably. He focused on the remote control, gloved fingers poised on the switch. _Stick to the script, stick to the script, stick—_

“If this is going to work, Ed, I need to know everything you know,” said Oswald, more patiently than Edward had expected. “Including the things you're determined not to know. I can't believe you tried to—”

“I wasn't trying to go solo,” replied Edward, petulantly. “Hide the preparations from you, yes. I wanted this to be a surprise, Oswald. I wanted you to be...” _Proud when I succeeded without your assistance_ , he thought, the words catching in his throat. _In absolute awe of the outcome._

Oswald made a sweeping gesture, as if to suggest Edward had his full attention, and sat down again.

Determined to show instead of tell, Edward turned his focus back to the players, fingers on the switch.

What he hadn't expected, not with such uncanny timing, was the opening of the main doors to a flurry of familiar GCPD radio static.

Oswald, instantly on his feet, raced directly back to Edward's side.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the monitor, hand extended in dismay as Captain Bullock strode up to her.

“Harvey?” Edward scoffed, glancing sidelong at Oswald. “That's absurd, he couldn't have solved—” 

He gasped as Lucius Fox entered next with a squad of heavily-armed young recruits on his heels.

“All right, officers,” said the monitor, in response to whatever low-voiced request Harvey had made of her. “Of course. How can I help you?”

 _Foxy put two and two together even faster than you thought he would_ , said Edward's mirror-voice, somewhere between observation and taunting. _And he_ is _foxy, is he not?_

“Shut up,” Edward whispered, slipping the remote back in his pocket, reaching for Oswald's hand.

“Ed,” Oswald whispered back, squeezing Edward's fingers, “are you sure the drugs have worn off?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Harvey was saying far below them. “We need to evacuate the building immediately.”

“We're in the middle of an important tournament,” protested the monitor, perturbed. “Are you sure?”

“Maybe I was wrong,” said Lucius, casting uncertainly about the room. “Maybe this isn't the place.”

“How interesting,” said Edward, recovering somewhat. “Unerringly correct, yet he doubts himself.”

Oswald shrugged, his knowing grin undershot with coy teasing.

“Let it not be said you don't know how to get exactly what you want,” he said. “Or that irony doesn't abound.”

Edward returned Oswald's grin, put his hand back in his pocket, and flipped the switch.

“Checkmate!” called one of the players below, brusquely hitting his timer.

The lever sparked on contact with his flesh, the shock's force sending both unwitting player and chair clattering to the floor.

Even as Edward started to laugh—manic, _disbelieving_ that he'd lured his target into position—Oswald covered Edward's mouth and dragged him back from the railing. Even as Harvey started to shout orders, pleading with the players to stop, more and more timers detonated on contact.

“I don't care how much fun you think this is,” Oswald said warningly, dragging him up toward the exit. “We are _not_ sticking around to get caught.”

“No, of course not,” Edward agreed, following him into the stairwell. “That wasn't part of the plan.”

For good measure, Oswald swung them around the side of the Annex that took them past the main building's entrance. He texted Caroline, asking her to pull up out front. Having business at GPL wouldn't have been out of the ordinary for him or for Edward in any circumstances.

They beat her to the designated spot along the curb, relieved to find that police focus was elsewhere.

Edward glanced down at the gutter, tapping his foot. He did a double-take at the object he saw there, bending to snatch it. He nearly unbalanced Oswald, who clung to his arm, in the process.

“They must have stormed the main building first,” he said in amazement, turning the GCPD badge over in his hand to find that it belonged to none other than Harvey Bullock. “Careless!”

Caroline pulled up in front of them, rolling down the window. “Get in! More cruisers on the way!”

Edward slipped Harvey's badge in his pocket as Oswald yanked open the door and dragged him into the limousine, his mind racing. He recalled the religious significance with which officers imbued this particular class of object, the sheer and dire implications of its loss—

“Never again,” Oswald said, clapping his hand atop Edward's against the seat. “Not like _this_. You accomplished what you set out to accomplish, and that was get Fox's attention. Congratulations, Ed. You got it. Now he'll know there's some criminal cleverpants on the loose, hopefully one he'll never come in contact with aside from the occasional conundrum-riddled heist. Satisfied?”

Edward thought of the burner phone, which he'd placed in his inside jacket pocket without Oswald's knowledge. Even the scrambled phone number, digit after digit scrawled beneath chesspieces—

“Consider me, and you will feel quite certain,” he blurted, apprehension bearing down harder than before. “Make me, and your mind may prove unmade. What am I?”

Oswald blinked at him in alarm, one hand flying to Edward's cheek, struggling to guess the answer.

“I have no—oh, Ed, _no_ ,” he said with the sudden horror of realization. “What did you do?”

The burner phone started to ring, the unfamiliar tone of it startling them both. Edward reached inside his jacket with shaking fingers, bringing the phone up to his ear, glancing at the digital clock.

“You're late,” he said, lowering his tone with an ear toward concealing both his identity and the fact that his composure was utterly shot. “I expected this call seven minutes ago.”

“This is Lucius Fox of the GCPD,” said the voice on the other end of the line, even as Oswald gaped.

Edward rolled his eyes, hoping that Oswald would find the gesture reassuring, a sign he was in control.

“I know who you are, Mr. Fox,” Edward said, struggling to keep his voice pitched low and harsh. “And, by the way, I hope that Detective Bullock was thoroughly perplexed by my missive.”

“You mean the telegram you sent?” Lucius asked. “He was right there when it arrived. Who is this?”

Alarmed, Oswald smacked Edward's thigh so hard that it took every ounce of his control not to cry out.

“You don't actually expect me to answer that, do you?” asked Edward, aiming for disdainful mockery.

“Then tell me why you killed Professor Dyson and the others,” Lucius replied. “I know it was you.”

Obviously able to hear every word that Lucius was saying, Oswald grew increasingly more agitated.

“I had no choice. They ins—” Edward bit his tongue in response to Oswald's frantic hand-waving, grateful Oswald had intuited that he'd been about to say _insulted me and mine_. “The details are immaterial. Now, it's _your_ turn to play, but to a different end. How did you like the Tour?”

“Masterful precision, exceptional for freehand,” Lucius said. “What if I don't accept your invitation?”

“There are lives at stake, Mr. Fox,” Edward replied, shocked beneath the wave of fury he experienced at the thought of everyone else who'd taken public blows at Oswald's disgrace in the intervening weeks. 

He'd go after them, too—for Oswald, always for Oswald, just as Oswald had always looked after _him_. He left-handedly fumbled Harvey's badge out of his pocket, running his thumb over the maze-like emblazonment. He remembered setting eyes on the puzzle box as the wrappings fell away, remembered Oswald's expression—so hopeful, so different from how he looked now.

Oswald's eyes were terrified, _pleading_ , his lips forming an indecipherable phrase on repeat.

“Lives at stake,” Edward repeated, the badge's role unfolding in his mind like revelation. “Not just your own should you fail me. Now, listen closely. Tomorrow, when the Pawn's on Queen,” he continued, recalling where Oswald had told him he'd bought the puzzle box, “you'll find my next target in the belly of the Beast. Solve my clue, Mr. Fox, and you'll be one step closer to passing my test.”

Breathlessly, he hung up, dropping both phone and badge in his lap. He grabbed Oswald, hugging him in elation.

Just like that, his next move had come to him. Entirely intact, _unrehearsed_. 

“If you do not tell me _right_ this minute what all of that was about,” Oswald seethed, “I will—”

“Gosh, long story!” Edward gushed. “I left them my phone number. Huge _mistake_ , right? Well, I thought so, too, at first, but—look, this phone's disposable, and I know what we need to do next! Remember that pawn shop on Queens Avenue? You know, the one where you got my gift? Thirio's? _Great_. Well, we're going to deposit _this_ —” he tapped Harvey's badge “—there very carefully, and when I say _deposit_ , I kind of mean we've got to kill one of the family-named staff, cut them open, and…you get the picture.” Before Oswald could launch into whatever tirade he was formulating behind his storm-swept eyes, Edward leaned forward and rapped on the barrier. “Hey, Caroline,” he said as it glided open, flashing her a smile in the rear-view mirror, “would you mind taking a detour across town? Queens Avenue, the pawn shop with atrocious awning? _Swell_.”

“Uh,” said Caroline, with uncharacteristic hesitation. “Sure, Mr. N,” she said. “Whatever you need.”

Once she'd closed the barrier again, Oswald grabbed Edward and shook him roughly in turn. 

“This, Ed? This kind of recklessness right here? Is how you get _caught_!” he shouted.

“But I'm not going to,” Edward reassured him, startled and more than slightly devastated that Oswald couldn't see the inevitable brilliance of inspiration once the gears had been wound. “I have _you_.”

“Edward, I swear to God,” pleaded Oswald, raggedly, voice fading to a harsh murmur. “Don't tempt...”

“I asked you once if you believed in it,” Edward reminded him, leaning in to brush their lips together.

Oswald spent all of two seconds kissing Edward back before he pulled away.

“When it comes to us, yes,” he insisted, tapping Edward's chest and then his own. “But _this_?”

“It's all I need to get one step closer,” Edward insisted. “To show them I'm serious. A test of mettle.”

“You implied that the chess thing was all you needed,” Oswald groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And, before that, you insisted it was the six. I don't understand, Ed. You'd jeopardize—”

“If I don't put the GCPD in its place, who will?” Edward asked. “The Duke? Santino? _Barbara_?”

“As long as Jim Gordon's around, the GCPD already knows its place!” Oswald cried. “He'll answer to me out of deference, out of respect for our history. He was your best man, Ed.”

Edward shook his head, glancing out the window to monitor their progress. “Jim's _your_ man,” he said evenly, “and Fox is going to be mine. Two cops in hand are better than one. Didn't we agree—”

“This is foolishness,” said Oswald, exhausted, collapsing back against the seat. “But— _whatever_.” He shrugged in defeat, unprotesting when Edward put an arm around him. “There's _some_ kind of method to your madness, so maybe...” He shrugged, letting Edward manhandle him into leaning against Edward's shoulder. “You won't get caught,” he sighed. “Not on my watch.”

“Not in madness, but mad in craft,” Edward quoted, soothing Oswald with kisses the rest of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Ed's closing line is a **[_Hamlet_ reference](http://nfs.sparknotes.com/hamlet/page_208.html)**. Concerning both certain canon details and [**my writing history**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/works?fandom_id=4818), I'm compromised.
> 
> The mistake riddle appearing near the end of this, you might recognize. I first wrote it for use in **[this post-3x14 micro-fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587000)**.


	24. Numbered Days

_Fortunate_ , thought Oswald, dourly, as Caroline drove them past the pawn shop's façade, on which both he and Edward noted the _WILL RETURN_ sign with its cardboard clock-hands set to three thirty p.m. _You can't rely on antiques dealers to keep regular hours_.

“Pull into the alley,” he instructed, experiencing mild whiplash as Caroline made the tight, immediate right turn. “Wait here until we return,” he added, reflexively inspecting his inner pocket to ensure that his pistol was there. “This...hopefully won't take long.”

Caroline hit the brakes without bothering to slow down, roughly putting the limousine in park.

“This isn't a social call, is it,” she demanded. “And I take it you aren't goin' shopping, either?”

“No, Ms. Fowler,” snapped Edward, at the end of his tether with her recalcitrant behavior. “We're here to kill a man and leave a GCPD officer's badge inside him as a clue.”

“You're gonna leave a _clue_ ,” Caroline echoed flatly, “inside an innocent man's body?”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” replied Oswald. “Surely you must remember the Thirios' racket—”

“Jesus fuckin' Christ, _idiots_ ,” Caroline said, unbuckling her seatbelt. “I'm comin' with.”

Edward looked rather affronted at what she'd just called them, but Oswald set a hand on his arm and shoved open the car door. They would be working in close quarters, inflicting injury at close range. His cane would prove more of a hindrance than help, so he left it behind.

“I will pay you quadruple time for today's duties,” Oswald hissed under his breath as he caught up with Caroline, who, ahead of them, had already drawn her weapon. “I cannot—”

“Thank me enough?” Caroline shot back, rounding the corner to the back entrance with all the expertise of a seasoned law-enforcement officer. “ _Please_. You shoulda known better than to let him call a shot off the cuff. This is the kinda shit you need Vee and Vic for.”

“Well, they're not here,” retorted Edward, catching up to them, “and you're what we've got.”

“You two were gonna go in there without cover?” Caroline demanded, testing the doorknob with her free hand, keeping her gun aimed at the alley with the other. “Locked.”

“Not a problem,” Edward said, reaching inside his jacket, producing a lock-pick set. “Just wait...”

“Does he just carry one of those around, y'know, for shits and giggles?” Caroline asked Oswald.

“It _is_ a useful piece of kit to have on hand,” said Oswald, admiringly, but he schooled his expression into something somber as she glared at him. He watched Edward work instead.

“How do you even know somebody's gonna be in there?” Caroline demanded, guarding them while Edward's movements slowed to a single moment of taut, nerve-wracking focus.

The _click_ of the lock giving way without an ounce of protest let Oswald breathe easy.

“There's only one person on duty most weekday afternoons,” he explained, giving Edward a nod of approval as he placed the set back in his pocket. “And it's usually Martin or Teddy Thirio.”

“Not busy enough to justify paying a member of part-time staff for assistance till the weekend,” Edward muttered, wrapping his gloved hand around the doorknob. “How do we play this?”

“I should cover your backs and watch the door, so I'm not goin' in first,” Caroline insisted.

Oswald drew his pistol and nudged Edward aside, setting _his_ gloved hand on the doorknob instead. “I have a better chance at incapacitating him quickly,” he said, “whether it's with a bullet or with something else on hand. That's an area in which I have experience.”

Edward, falling in line between Oswald and Caroline, drew his knife and flicked open the blade.

“That's further ahead than I'd managed to think, so...” He shrugged. “I'll follow your lead.”

“Under no circumstances is this an interrogation,” Oswald cautioned. “Do you understand? Regardless of which man we meet, we don't speak to him or give him the chance _to_ speak. No grandstanding, and no riddles. I won't have to gag you, will I?”

“Not _here_ ,” murmured Edward, not softly enough; just behind them, Caroline scoffed.

“If you don't shut the fuck up, Mr. N,” she said between gritted teeth, “I swear to _God_ —”

“You can't speak to me like that,” said Edward, venomously, appealing to Oswald. “She can't—”

“If both of you don't shut up, we are going to get _caught_!” Oswald seethed. He turned the knob and shoved the door inward, making his entrance.

The back hall was narrow, dusty, and crammed from floor to ceiling with objects far too degraded to be of much use to anyone. Oswald squinted in the dim light, shuffling forward as stealthily as he could. Somewhere around the corner, where the hall likely opened on the break-room storage space behind the sales floor of the shop, he heard the placid, talk-only hum of a radio.

Behind him, Edward tried to stifle a sneeze, and Caroline made a disgusted sound at his failure.

Oswald froze in his tracks at the sound of a stool scraping on rug-covered concrete. He cocked his pistol, realizing that they were the worst kind of cornered if the person in the shop had access to any kind of semi-automatic weapon. Knowing Martin Thirio, he wouldn't put it past him.

“Somebody back there?” called an uncertain voice from the room around the corner. “Marty?”

Realizing they'd been dealt the most fortunate hand possible, Oswald made an executive decision. He strode the remaining few feet forward and around the corner, fueled by Edward's anticipatory gasp. They had the element of surprise, and Martin's cousin was no fighter.

“Surprise, _Teddy_ ,” Oswald sneered, enjoying the comical quality that Teddy's interrupted lunch, a sandwich held mere inches from the man's startled face, lent the proceedings. “I know this isn't how you imagined your break was going to go, _however_ —”

His stance suffering from the strain of their painstaking approach, Oswald still succeeded in placing the shot within a diagonal inch of where he'd intended for it to go, blowing out Teddy's right eye-socket. He'd tucked his pistol away before Teddy even hit the floor.

Edward whistled, short of breath, and Caroline proceeded to march back whence they'd come.

“You guys better make it quick,” she called back over her shoulder. “I'm gonna stand guard.”

Before Oswald could protest, Edward spun him around with both palms pressed to Oswald's cheeks. The cool metal of his knife-handle sent a shiver down Oswald's spine.

“I thought you said we weren't going to speak,” he said, hunching to give Oswald a fierce kiss.

“Do your dirty work, Ed,” Oswald muttered, reluctant to disengage as he caught himself imagining the expert display of dissection to which he was about to be treated, “so we can leave.”

“I'll have to dispose of these gloves afterward,” Edward sighed, releasing Oswald, adjusting his hat as he approached the body and crouched beside it on the floor. He removed Harvey's badge from his pocket, tapping his knife-blade against it, lost in thought. “Find me a staple-gun.”

Reluctantly, while Edward got to work, Oswald searched the premises until he'd located the desired object. He returned to the back room to find Edward withdrawing his fingers from the incision he'd made in Teddy's abdomen in order to take up his knife and extend it by an inch. 

Heaven help him, but Oswald would never tire of the sight of Edward doing what he did best. 

Finding he was now able to insert all four fingers of his left hand, Edward fetched the badge from the floor and inserted it as deeply as the wound would permit. He withdrew his hand and glanced at Oswald, wiggling his bloody fingers with a grin.

“You found one,” he said, extending his right hand, thankfully clean, for the staple-gun. “Good.”

“I'm tempted to score your finished job against Mr. Valeska's,” Oswald said, watching Edward struggle to keep the straining flesh pinched together while he placed staple after staple.

“Even in haste, my precision outclasses his,” replied Edward, equal parts enamored and irritated. “You're a fine one to talk. You meant to hit Teddy _between_ the eyes, didn't you?”

“I get the job done,” said Oswald, with a shrug, preening as Edward side-eyed him with unmistakable intensity. “What does it matter if there's some miniscule variation?”

“Precisely my point,” Edward replied, already halfway finished, “so shut up about the staples.”

Oswald insisted that Edward re-button Teddy's shirt and clean up as much of the blood as possible, balling his ruined gloves together with the staple-gun and the rug on which he'd situated his subject. These, they stuck in an empty trash-bag before departure.

Oswald was adamant about taking it with them so Gabriel could see to disposal. 

They reached the end of the back hall arm in arm, Oswald's gait by now suffering significantly. Even with the trash-bag dangling gaily from one wrist, Edward pinned Oswald up against the cobweb-covered wall and kissed the breath from him, sinking his teeth in Oswald's lower lip.

Torn between revulsion at the cobwebs and desire at Edward's wanton gesture, Oswald moaned.

Caroline pulled the door open, shedding blinding daylight on them, loudly clearing her throat.

“Swear to God, if that's how you wanna get caught, be my guest,” she said, hitting the button-lock on the inside doorknob with her gloved hand, beckoning them out. “Let's _go_.”

The most trying aspect of the ride home involved keeping Edward's restless hands restricted to caresses overtop of clothing. Oswald wasn't about to succumb to the inevitable until they'd gotten home and he'd scrubbed them with his clinical soap, and he told Edward as much between light, teasing strokes of his fingertip up and down Edward's concealed erection.

“Go upstairs and do...whatever you have to do to make sure you're not a biohazard,” Oswald told Edward once they'd staggered out of the car and onto the gravel, not even caring that Caroline was within earshot. “Wait for me there,” he added, removing his phone from his pocket, flipping through applications until he found the one Caroline preferred. “Your wages.”

“Another piece of advice, and this one ain't free,” Caroline told Oswald as he hung back to complete the transfer of funds. “Quit thinkin' with your dick, Mr. C. Leads to nothin' but grief.”

“I suppose you'd know that on account of the second time you _did_ time,” said Oswald, tartly, snapping his phone shut, slipping it in his pocket. “Good evening, Ms. Fowler.”

If what she muttered on her way to her own vehicle really was _at least I've got balls bigger than yours_ , Oswald decided it was the better part of valor not to ask. He went inside.

Edward was waiting for him in the bedroom, naked on the freshly made-up bed with their latest tube of lubricant in his scrubbed-raw hands.

Oswald propped his cane against the nightstand and undressed slowly enough to leave Edward breathing with more difficulty than he was already.

“I want to fuck you,” Edward said soberly, reaching for Oswald as he crawled onto the bed. “Can I?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Oswald agreed, knowing full well that the wound-up state they were in wouldn't make for any kind of stamina on either side. “It'll certainly make up for what you pulled—”

“Tell me I did all right,” Edward demanded, unexpectedly rolling Oswald onto his back. “In spite of everything we didn't plan, in spite of having to involve Caroline. _Please_.”

Oswald blinked up at him in lust-hazed confusion as he got to work slicking Oswald's cock.

“Ed, correct me if I'm wrong,” he panted, grasping Edward's wrist, “but I thought you wanted—”

“I do,” said Edward, with an edge of authority Oswald dared not question. “ _This_ ,” he went on, going up on his knees as he straddled Oswald's thighs, reaching behind himself with his lube-smeared right hand even as he continued to stroke Oswald with his left, “is fucking you as much as doing so in the literal sense—and, anyway, I suspect this is how you want it, too.”

 _Why in the world would you say that?_ Oswald thought, his perplexity not strong enough to crowd out the whimper that escaped him as he watched the minute shifts in Edward's facial expression as he prepared himself. He slid both hands from Edward's hips down to his buttocks, pinching him with one while letting the other move to position himself so that Edward could sink down on him—slow, _achingly_ slow—with minimal difficulty.

Edward seated himself with a bitten-off groan, rocking down against Oswald, clenching around him to shivery perfection.

“Oswald,” he said, hips snapping to a standstill, “I want you to _tell_ me.”

Oswald moaned in frustration, scrabbling at the covers one-handed while he wrapped his other arm around Edward to keep from dislodging him while he struggled to scoot into a sitting position. Being propped up against the pillows like this was better, _far_ better, but Edward seemed to have other ideas. He reached behind himself and took hold of Oswald's wrist, pinning both of Oswald's hands back down against the mattress.

Edward scolded Oswald with a click of his tongue, rocking forward just enough to rub himself against Oswald's belly and leave a messy, teeth-scraping kiss against Oswald's cheekbone.

“Just a reminder,” he panted, tightening his grip on Oswald's hands, “of who's fucking whom.”

Oswald, trembling from the shock of Edward's teeth in a place he'd never previously used them, planted his feet and pushed up subtly, testing the water. Edward whimpered, but held fast.

“Oh, _love_ ,” Oswald said, his voice strained, “you did better than all right. You were superb.”

At that, Edward moaned outright, releasing Oswald's hands as promptly as he'd trapped them. He started to rock again, keeping the kind of pace they both knew would suffice when they were already this far gone. Oswald wrapped his arms around Edward's middle, kneading up his spine with frantic determination, distributing a sequence of desperate bites along Edward's collarbone.

Oswald, blissfully absorbed in leaving a bruise, almost didn't register what Edward said next.

“Hit me,” Edward whispered, his jittery fingers tapping against Oswald's shoulder blades.

“Excuse me?” Oswald blurted, abandoning his task in dismay. “You want me to— _what_?”

“I think,” Edward said shakily, reaching behind him to take hold of Oswald's wrists again, guiding Oswald's hands down to his ass, “maybe you want that, too. I said, _hit_ —”

Steadying him with one hand, Oswald smacked him sharply with the other, thrusting up harder.

Edward gasped and melted closer against him, winding his arms tightly around Oswald's neck.

“Again,” he pleaded, a quivering mess after only a single blow. “Again, again, _again_.”

Oswald struggled against his haze of arousal, delivering a new slap for each repetition. He wouldn't strike Edward any harder than this, he _wouldn't_ , not after having surmised the awful, yet cathartic implications of such a request. He kissed Edward on the mouth, pleading.

That, _that_ was enough to send Edward shaking and sobbing into climax. Oswald held him through wave after wave of it, marveling at the sight and feel of Edward so desperately overwhelmed. He hadn't even been touched.

“I love you,” Edward gasped raggedly. “I love you, I love you, I'm _sorry_ , I—”

“Ed, _oh_ ,” Oswald gasped, joining him at last. “No matter how you vex me, I swear...”

“That makes two of us,” Edward said, kissing Oswald through his orgasm. “Vexed, I mean.”

“That,” Oswald panted after a short while in which neither of them spoke, his forehead plastered against Edward's cheek, “can be your definition of...” He sighed, rubbing between Edward's shoulder blades, soothing residual tension away. “Of fucking me. Any time you like.”

“I'm tired,” Edward murmured, his fingers fretful in Oswald's hair. “I could sleep for a year.”

Oswald withdrew from him carefully, helping Edward shift to one side. He landed in a wordless heap amidst the wrecked sheets, breathing hard, struggling to ignore the extent to which he was covered in sweat and come.

Oswald crawled over him, placing one hand gently against Edward's hipbone, using it to roll him onto his belly. 

Edward's backside wasn't as red as Oswald had imagined, but it was discernibly pink. He kissed one cheek after the other, skimming Edward's flesh with tentative fingertips. Edward sighed.

“Then rest,” Oswald told him, wincing as he climbed out of bed, “for as long as you need to.”

Once Oswald had gotten them cleaned up and tucked Edward in, he took a long, hot bath before heading downstairs to face Olga's ire. They hadn't missed dinner, but Edward's absence from the table did _not_ go unnoticed. Tetchily, Oswald thanked her to mind her own business.

After eating, Oswald called Gabriel to come and deal with the trash-bag sitting outside in the limousine. The bodyguard arrived in record time and deemed the job a piece of cake.

After that, limping away from what little he'd touched of Olga's tea service, Oswald called Zsasz to ask if he'd be willing to perform a night's guard-duty given present police activity. As cheeky as ever, he demanded to know if the Queen of Gotham had anything to do with that. Once Oswald had finished castigating him, Zsasz apologized and agreed to the usual rate.

“You might wanna throw in a kiss, though,” Zsasz went on. “Something to sweeten the pot.”

“I have no idea why I tolerate your impertinence,” Oswald retorted, wondering why the most effective soldiers were also the most insufferable. “But maybe it _is_ your pretty face.”

Viola Aragon, on the other hand, proved much more difficult to persuade. Oswald's leg ached as he dragged himself up step after step, phrasing his request to her as politely as he could manage.

“You upset my girlfriend, boss,” said Vee, curtly, sounding ready to hang up. “Not tonight.”

Oswald grimaced into the receiver, at least grateful that his suspicions were finally confirmed.

“Fine,” he said, tapping the railing in frustration as he made his way upstairs. “Time and a half.”

“That's not what you gave Caroline,” Vee replied flatly. “She says it was...quite the paycheck.”

“In your case, I'll match it,” Oswald vowed, reaching the top. “As long as you don't tell Victor.”

Vee sighed, the next sequence of sounds from her end muffled as if she'd covered the receiver.

“Okay, boss,” she said. “I'll get Vic to swing by here, no use in either of us traveling solo.”

Oswald stripped out of his dressing gown before climbing into bed next to Edward, who was dead to the world. Oswald settled close—spooning him, enveloped in darkness and warmth—running his hand from Edward's shoulder down to the jut of his elbow beneath the covers.

 _Please wake with it gone from your system_ , he thought. _Purged like a bad dream_.

The next morning, Oswald woke just before eight o'clock to find Edward still faintly snoring. He'd scarcely even changed position, so Oswald kissed the back of his neck and tucked him back in before heading downstairs. He found Olga reading on the sofa.

“Don't you look relaxed,” he chided, tapping his cane on the floor. “Breakfast? _Please_?”

“Oatmeal is cooking,” she yawned, setting her book on the coffee table. “All I need is to make tea and chop fruit.” She shuffled past Oswald to the kitchen. “You are the one who needs to relax.”

Twenty minutes later, Oswald sat stirring brown sugar into his bowl and taking a few queasy bites. He flipped through the _Gazette_ , trying to ignore the knot that had formed in his stomach at the sight of Valerie Vale's latest headline. 

Edward trailed into the room unannounced, barefoot and yawning. He took his seat at Oswald's side before Oswald could drop the paper and run to him, attempting to fix one badly-drooping shoulder of his dressing gown.

“You left quite a mark,” he said with sleepy pride, running his fingers across the exposed hickey.

“Yes, and it's nothing Olga needs to see,” Oswald replied, adjusting the garment for him, retying the belt around his waist. “Do you realize you slept for fifteen or sixteen hours straight?”

“Good morning, Edward,” Olga said, bustling in with a bowl of oatmeal and a bowl of fruit for him. “Is unusual for you to be the lazy one. Perhaps feeling like you turn over a new leaf?”

Edward's glower at Olga was halfhearted, if unreadable. “Something like that,” he muttered.

“I thought you might want to see this,” Oswald said while Edward took a tentative bite of his oatmeal, holding up the headline for him to inspect. “ _CHECK MATE: CHESS KILLER ELECTRIFIES COMPETITION._ Our friends at GCPD have decided to publicly link your first string of antics with the second, no small thanks to your chat with Fox.”

“I expected better of Vale,” Edward muttered, angrily spearing several blueberries. “Checkmate is one word. Also, Chess Killer is hardly apt; none of the people I killed were players.”

“It is rather absurd, isn't it?” Oswald agreed, hoping to distract him by making light. “The Chess Killer. How _terrifying_. How will anyone sleep knowing the Chess Killer is on the loose?”

Edward looked furious for the briefest of seconds before deciding to eat his blueberries.

“Maybe it's just a name dreamed up by some hack copy-editor. It doesn't really matter,” he said, shrugging. He set down his fork and snatched the newspaper away from Oswald, scanning through it until something made him stop. “Anyway, today will change everything.”

Oswald felt his blood run cold, every hope he'd had for what dawn would bring them dashed to pieces. He knew that tone of voice; he knew the sound of Edward latching onto a fresh scheme as well as he knew each hitch of Edward's breath when they made love.

“Change what, Ed?” he demanded, losing his composure before he was even conscious he'd done so. “How I perceive you and your capabilities? Surely you know that I need no further proof of those! I showed you how to help me run the underworld and operate in plain sight, and that is what we _do_.” He slammed his half-empty glass of orange juice down on the table, startling Edward so badly he dropped the paper. “I should never have catered to your whims concerning those letters to the editor, no matter _how_ touching I found the sentiment behind your plans. And then you have the nerve to go behind my back, think that it's all right to just—just _surprise_ me? So, what, there was yesterday, and now there's—today? Tomorrow? I can't keep up. What you are planning is madness, and _not_ the attractive kind!”

Edward gaped at him, so far beyond deer in the headlights that the sheer wrongness of it rankled.

“N— _No_ , Oswald,” he stammered. “I wanted, I—Oswald, you don't understand, _I_ —”

“You're either not sleeping, or you're sleeping too much,” Oswald cut in, recalling the promise he'd made Caroline, realizing that he owed it to her as much as he owed it to Edward. “Ed, we are married now, and I am _worried sick_! If you're holding anything else back, so _help_ me—”

The sudden flare of Olga's ringtone, an obnoxious, if soulful pop song that Oswald couldn't put his finger on, startled him into silence. She strode in and took away Oswald's bowls, as if deciding he didn't deserve what traces were left in them. She stared pointedly at Edward.

“Is good you are getting sleep, but I agree with Oswald,” she said. “You are out of control.”

Edward's expression hardened. He glared at her, finding a point of focus in his distraction, and then shifted his gaze back to Oswald. He ate another reticent spoonful of oatmeal and stood up.

“I imagine that Lee and Fox will be attending to our friend Thirio on the slab this morning, if they haven't already. Did you think I just...picked up the badge on a lark?” Edward threw his spoon down on the table, causing Oswald to recoil. “A _clue_ , Oswald! Get one! I used to manage your mayoral calendar, and I had knowledge of events as far ahead as this summer. There's a new class of Gotham Police Academy cadets graduating this evening, and Captain Bullock is set to make a speech. _You_ would have been speaking, too, by the way, but obviously it's down to Aubrey James now that he's been reinstated.” He braced one palm on the tabletop, getting right in Oswald's face as Olga made a hasty exit. “ _Bullock_ is the target. If I get to him, I bait the final trap for Fox. Do you get it? No? Well, it's your fault for not even bothering to ask what the clue we left was _for_!”

Oswald scooted his chair as far back from Edward's wrath as he could. He was no medical expert, but the mood swing he was witnessing was probably some form of withdrawal.

“Ed, please calm down,” he said as placatingly as he could manage, concealing his fear as thoroughly as he'd done before. “If you _insist_ on...whatever it is you'd like to attempt this evening at the Academy, I will _more_ than happily assist you. But we'll have to do something about how recognizable you are if you have no plans to kill either one of them.”

“Only if Fox fails me,” Edward replied, calming somewhat. “But you...do have a point.”

Oswald latched onto the lull in Edward's fury, taking the opportunity to grasp his hand, kiss it, and lead him out through the entryway. He didn't pause until he'd led Edward upstairs and back into the bedroom, bringing them to a halt before the wardrobe. He snatched the tie Edward had mangled from where he'd slung it over one of the hooks inside the door, and then took it over to the dressing table. 

Seating himself on the stool, Oswald rummaged through a handful of thread-spools in the lowest drawer until he came up with the only purple. He stuck a needle from his father's pincushion between his teeth, unspooling a length of thread.

“I don't...” Edward made a useless gesture at the bed. “After last night, I'm not in the mood.”

“This has nothing to do with sex,” Oswald explained, threading the needle as swiftly as his mother had taught him, prodding at the frayed edges of the eye-holes to see if he could neatly turn them in on themselves for stitching, “and _everything_ to do with disguise.”

“Even with a mask, I'd still need my glasses,” Edward sighed, defeated, taking a seat on the floor, resting his head against Oswald's knee as Oswald worked. “This is hopeless.”

“Then blindfold your subjects,” Oswald suggested, already making decent headway. “Whether you wear this outside the bedroom or not is no concern of mine, but I'll be damned if they see your face tonight. What were you going to do, render Harvey unconscious? Hold him somewhere and leave a trail of clues for Fox in hopes he'd turn up in time?”

“My plan,” admitted Edward, fingers curling anxiously around Oswald's ankle, “is a precarious one.”

Pausing in his task, flooded with abject relief, Oswald bent and kissed the top of Edward's head.

“It's also your last,” he said, resting his cheek against Edward's mussed hair. “So let's change it.”

Coaxing Edward back downstairs to finish his breakfast while Oswald finished converting the tie into a mask that wouldn't fray at the slightest use was daunting, but Oswald managed it. Forcing Edward to dictate precisely what he'd planned to do on short notice was an exercise in not having a premature heart attack. The recklessness of it, the sheer amount of room for error, was _vast_.

By shortly after noontime, Edward had a finished mask and an overhauled plan. He donned it in front of the triptych mirror once they'd bathed and dressed, frowning at the difficulty posed by the placement of his glasses over it. He untied it in frustration, dropping it on the dressing table.

“Thank you for trying to turn this into anything but the disaster I've made of it,” he muttered.

Oswald wrapped both arms around him from behind, instinctively brushing at Edward's tie pin.

“Either you back out,” he said, “or don't let them see you. And maybe consider contact lenses.”

“Tried in college,” said Edward, glumly. “I got GPC—Giant Papillary Conjunctivitis. Ugly.”

Oswald had to go up on tiptoe to kiss the fine, shorn hairs that scarcely brushed Edward's collar.

“I wish you would stop, dearest Ed,” he admitted, overcome with regret, “but I won't make you.”

“Why not?” Edward asked, tilting his head at their reflection. “Arguably, it's the sensible thing.”

“Loving you means letting you make mistakes,” Oswald said. “Just like you let me make mine.”

“Hearst was my mistake, not yours,” insisted Edward, his tone unreadable. “What were yours?”

“Running for mayor in the first place,” said Oswald, simply. “How much madder does it get?”

“That wasn't a mistake, Oswald,” Edward insisted. “It was an experiment, and I ran it with you.”

“Right, then,” Oswald replied, releasing him, stepping to one side. “Do we run tonight or not?”

Edward nodded, donning his bowler. “There's no use explaining now, but my answer is yes.”

Oswald spent most of the rest of the day reading in the drawing room while Edward fussed with eleventh-hour preparations. Caroline could only be persuaded out of hiding with a sum exceeding the previous day's wages, to which Oswald agreed for no earthly reason other than love.

“You realize this means you both deserve to be back in Arkham if you wind up there, right?” she asked Oswald through the divider. “And for fuck's sake, gimme one of those fancy cigarettes.”

Oswald lit a Dunhill and handed it through to her without hesitation. “I can't disagree with you.”

“You ever wonder what's wrong with this city?” Caroline asked candidly, her eyes flicking up to meet Oswald's in the rear-view mirror. “What's wrong with _us_?”

Oswald shrugged, lighting a cigarette of his own as Edward came out with the last of his gear.

“We're the fault in Gotham's heart,” he replied, considering what his mother might have said, “and we owe it to her, in our numbered days, to patch what pieces we can.”

“Yeah,” Caroline snickered, sounding a little more like herself. “We can't all be Metropolis.”

“Cut the chit-chat and let's go,” said Edward, setting a gas mask on the floor. “We'll be late.”

The Academy wasn't as lengthy a drive as some of their other recent trips had been. Caroline had, as usual, thought ahead and chosen the best-concealed place to park. As they pulled to a halt, Oswald couldn't help but notice that Edward seemed withdrawn instead of anticipatory.

Oswald leaned in and gave him a tentative kiss, which seemed to snap him out of his reverie.

“Remember,” he said, placing the gas mask in Edward's hands. “Put it on once you're inside, and _leave_ it on. It'll hide your face more effectively than any other option at your disposal.”

Edward blinked at the mask, as if he didn't know what to do with it even though he'd been told.

“Wish I could see without these,” he said, indicating his glasses. “The alternative was elegant.”

Oswald felt his chest constrict and his throat tighten, struggling to keep his emotions under control. He wanted to tell Caroline to turn the car around, to decisively say the plan was off.

Edward, his eyes tracking repeatedly over Oswald's face, abruptly tossed the mask on the floor.

“I can't,” he said. “Oswald, I'm sorry. I should have listened, I—won't go after Harvey, but—” He fished through his duffel bag of supplies, withdrawing one of the blindfolds and his lock-pick set, stuffing them in his waistcoat pockets. He checked his jacket for the pistol, patting his trousers to reassure Oswald he had the knife, and then said, “ _Change_ of change of plans. Fox is probably already inside, because he expects I'll be there. Better to let graduation proceed without incident, _meanwhile_...” He tapped the divider until it opened. “Hey, Caroline?”

“Hey yourself, Ed,” she sighed, the short form of Edward's name startling on her lips. “What?”

“Let's drive around,” he said. “I'm not going inside, but I _do_ need to find someone's car.”

Oswald squeezed Edward's hand against the seat, unable to express his gratitude via other means.

They located Fox's vehicle on the next side street over, adjacent to a parking lot full of cars doubtless belonging to various Academy cadets, employees, and others attending the graduation. Caroline found two unoccupied spaces facing each other, pulling through until she occupied both.

Tucked between four other vehicles, they had a clear view of Fox's on the curb.

“I don't know what you're planning, but it had better be an elegant alternative, too,” Oswald said.

Edward fitted himself with an earpiece and then handed the other to Oswald, grinning madly.

“I'm _still_ going to have my conversation with Fox,” he said, “no hostages required.”

Oswald watched Edward exit the limousine and head over to Fox's vehicle. He held his breath as Edward picked open the back door on his third try in less than a minute, stared as Edward clambered into the back seat and concealed himself with impressive ease.

“I dunno how somebody that lanky can fit in such a cramped space,” Caroline remarked.

“You'd be surprised how nicely he folds up,” Oswald agreed, fingering the origami penguin behind his pocket square. “In more ways than one.”

“Tell me when you see him coming,” crackled Edward's voice over the earpiece, startling in its suddenness. “Just like the Dyson job, remember? Stay out of this unless I'm in trouble.”

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Caroline hissed, pointing at the rear-view. “Is that your guy over there?”

“Ed, keep it down,” Oswald sighed, judging the current distance between a perplexed-looking Lucius Fox and the front door of his car. “He'll be there in thirty seconds.”

It was almost startling, even across a distance of about ten yards and through a windshield that Oswald could only peer through if he crouched at the open panel, to witness the ease with which Edward looped the blindfold around Fox's head, tied it, and cocked his pistol.

“Look who it is!” said Edward, voice pitched low, his movements corresponding, in Oswald's mind, to his words. “Or, well—you would if you could. I'm so glad you decided to play, Foxy.”

“Thanks for not killing all those people,” Fox sighed, sounding more weary than afraid. “Enough beating around the bush, then. Whatever you had in mind, let's begin.”

“What the _hell_ is he doing, Mr. C?” Caroline asked incredulously, squinting at the car.

“This is the part where he starts asking the riddles,” said Oswald, holding his breath. “I think.”

“I will give you three riddles,” Edward said with measured confidence. “To test your mettle, you understand. Get three wrong, and…” He whistled, its tonal pattern identical to the one Oswald had heard before, shoving the gun harder against the base of Fox's skull. “Am I clear?”

Fox was quiet for longer than Oswald imagined Edward would tolerate. “And if I get them right?”

“Then you get to live,” Edward said. “Even if you get _just_ one. Can’t say fairer than that.”

Appearing to nod, Fox caught Oswald off-guard with his curiously agreeable response. “Okay.”

“Wonderful,” Edward said, drumming along the back of the seat. “First riddle. I can fill a room or just one heart. Others may have me, but I cannot be shared. What am I?”

“The answer’s love,” replied Fox, after only a few seconds' pause, sounding sure of himself.

“What? No. _No_!” Edward railed, sounding agitated enough to put Oswald on alert. “The answer is _loneliness_. Love can be shared; it’s something even a man like me can understand. How do you not _know_ that?”

What Fox suggested next made Oswald wish he could attempt a shot from right where he was.

“Something tells me you may be feeling a bit…isolated, your emotional support system notwithstanding. That’s a shame,” Fox sighed, genuinely compassionate. “Ask me another.”

Edward's next words hissed into Oswald's ear like soothing balm in spite of the feedback.

“There is _nothing_ wrong with my support system! That person, those _people_ , have…encouraged me to pursue my ambitions at every turn,” he snapped. “No, what’s at issue is my professional development. I’m currently in the midst of a career change. A kind of…promotion,” he said, clapping his hands, impeded by the gun. “Okay. Second riddle. I can be a member of a group, but can never blend in. What am I?”

“A snowflake,” Fox said, as if the answer were so obvious that he'd indeed wager his life on it.

“A sn— _no_!” Edward shouted, sounding more upset by the second. “No, _no_! The answer is an individual!”

Fox cried out, suggesting that Edward's hunch forward indeed meant he'd dug the gun in harder.

“Wait! A snowflake is also a suitable answer,” he reasoned, less calm than before, yet appealing steadily to Edward. “No two are alike, making them by definition individuals…therefore, an answer befitting your riddle.”

“Things do _not_ look okay in there, Mr. C,” observed Caroline, gravely. “Any updates?”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Oswald cautioned. “Yes, in a manner of speaking. Ed's losing his patience.”

“Okay,” Edward said. “I don’t think you grasp how this works. You have to give _my_ answer.” And, in a turn so stunning that Oswald didn't have time to react, he started to mutter under his breath. “Os—oh _dear_ , he was right, this is madness.” He appeared to falter to such an extent that he'd let down his guard with the gun, but quickly shoved it back where it had been. “No, it’s just you! You aren’t a good enough enemy,” he concluded, but seemed to change his mind within the same breath. “No. No, _no_. Three riddles. Three answers. Those are the rules. Okay, final riddle,” he continued with another clap, so unstable that Oswald was ready to rush to his assistance. “I feel your every move; I know your every thought. I'm with you from birth, and I'll see you rot. What am I?”

“He's crackin' up in there, isn't he?” Caroline said in amazement. “Look, don't you think...”

“Look, I’m beginning to think,” said Fox, slowly, the closeness of his words to Caroline's sending a shiver down Oswald's spine, “that I might just know what this is, maybe even who you are, and…what’s going on. It’s probably a big change for you. Did something happen?”

“Shoot him,” said Oswald, urgently. “For fuck's _sake_ , Ed, this would be the time to—”

Edward appeared to twitch where he sat, his grip on the gun faltering, but he ignored Oswald.

“Something happened, didn’t it?” Fox went on, infuriatingly patient. “Look, whoever you are, _if_ you are—know what, let’s forget about that,” he said shakily when Edward shoved the gun into him again. “I don’t care who you are. I just want to know what drove you to this.”

Oswald could hear Edward breathe out hard through his nose; his free hand adjusted his glasses.

“I feel your every thought...” He shook his head, realizing he'd fumbled; in a confused flurry of movement that Oswald couldn't parse until he saw the blade flash, he realized Edward had removed the knife from his pocket with his left hand, flicked it open, switched it for the pistol in his right, and put the pistol away with his left. “I feel your every move; I know your every thought. I'm with you from birth, and I'll see you _rot_. What am I?”

Fox was nodding, as if he'd been given the answer to more than just the riddle he'd been asked.

“A reflection,” he said with calm, cool precision, awaiting Edward's verdict with the blade.

“Correct,” Edward said, the elation and relief in his tone almost nonsensical. “Oops,” he gasped.

“Just a scratch,” said Fox, far too forgivingly for a man in his position. “Now, look, as much as you’re not going to want to hear this—” 

“Caroline, we have to go,” said Oswald, lunging sideways, frantically opening the back door. “We have to go _now_ ,” he said, drawing the pistol from his jacket as he limped toward Fox's car with purpose, grateful that both men in it had their backs to them.

“No shit, Mr. C,” Caroline said, already out of the driver's seat, weapon drawn. She advanced slightly ahead of him, her eyes hard and the set of her jaw protective. “He's losin' it.”

Edward appeared to tighten his grip on Fox's neck, doubtless digging in harder with the knife. He glanced over his shoulder as if he'd sensed their approach, eyes widening as he turned back.

Fox continued to speak, each and every word dagger-like to Oswald's ear in its own right.

“I _urge_ you to give yourself up and come with me so that we can get you the help—”

“No can do, Foxy,” said Edward, sounding as if he'd regained control of the situation. He opened the back door of the car with his left hand and then withdrew a gas canister from his pocket. “Light as a feather, yet no man can hold it long,” he said, pulling the pin. He tossed the canister into the front seat before hitting manual-lock and slamming the door. “What am I?”

From the look of it, Fox was unconscious before Edward even reached Oswald and Caroline.

“That was reckless of you!” Oswald scolded, clinging to Edward's offered arm as they fled back to the car, where Caroline was waiting outside the driver's side door with her gun still drawn.

“Yes, but what choice did I have?” Edward asked, hustling Oswald inside the limousine ahead of him, pulling the door shut. “He was close to confronting me about my identity. I didn't—”

“Yes, _and_ there's that!” Oswald raged, grateful that Caroline had not only made it back to her seat, but also gotten them moving in a hurry. “What do we do when GCPD comes knocking _this_ time?” he asked, uncocking his pistol, tossing it on the floor.

“Same thing we do every time,” Edward suggested, tossing his knife next to Oswald's gun, shedding his gloves. As an afterthought, he removed the pistol from his pocket, discarding it, too. “In the absence of evidence, which they _haven't_ got, lie and tell half-truths.”

Oswald fumed where he sat, teary-eyed and quaking, but he reached for Edward all the same.

“I didn't know you had the gas on you!” he hiccuped, clinging to Edward with all his strength as Edward's arms closed around him. “When you switched the gun for the knife, I thought—”

“I needed to feel in control again, Oswald,” Edward said harshly. “That knife's what I know.”

Oswald nodded against Edward's shoulder, entirely willing to accept the change's necessity.

“And to think—” he choked back tears, unable to sufficiently fill his lungs “—I turned it on you.”

“I said to forget about that,” said Edward, his voice heartbreakingly tight. “It's nothing, a bygone.”

“No more secrets,” Oswald insisted, fists clenching and unclenching against Edward's jacket. “You'll need to be forthcoming with me from now on, Ed, and I _promise_...”

They clung to each other for some time, both of them quietly sobbing. Edward recovered first, withdrawing Oswald's handkerchief from his pocket so that he could wipe Oswald's nose, fold it over on itself, and then wipe his own. He handed it apologetically back to Oswald.

“Would you say,” he ventured, “that part of you has _always_ been Penguin, Oswald?”

Oswald was too drained and shaken to understand the question, but he tried to answer anyway.

“No?” he said, clinging to Edward as tightly as before. “We’ve covered this; I made _myself_ , and you and Fish and a few others helped. I’m not sure what you mean.”

“All my life,” Edward began, calm and collected for the first time since the ordeal began, “I felt like there was someone inside of me, someone stronger and…smarter.” He took a halting breath, his grip on Oswald's shoulders tightening, his eyes uncannily expressive. “Someone that people would fear. No one else saw that…until now, Oswald,” he said, holding Oswald at arms' length. “Until you. And I wanted _so badly_ to be worthy of that image, of what you see when you look at me, that I—”

“Ed, _don’t_ ,” Oswald cut in. “Please, _please_ believe me when I say that you need not be anything more than who you are—Edward Nygma, the Riddler, _all_ of you—to hold my devotion. You had it from the moment you accepted my proposal and sealed it with with a toast. From the moment you let me kiss you— _no_. From the moment you took me home, let me bleed all over the seat of your car; from the moment you…” He sobbed, in tears all over again. “From the moment you stepped a little too close. That’s all love is. Getting close enough to recognize what’s there. The trick is holding onto it, and I…” He touched Edward's face, doing his best to summon a smile. “Please, Ed. Speaking as your _husband_ , I don’t want to lose you because—because I've somehow made you feel you need to take your ambitions too far in order to measure up!”

“Oh,” Edward whispered, releasing Oswald's shoulder, his hand flying to cover Oswald's. “Oh my, I...” He turned his face blindly into Oswald's palm as he'd done so many times before, kissing the heart of it.

“You don't have to say anything,” Oswald told him, brushing away Edward's tears. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For curious and interested parties, there's a bonus ficlet from Ed's perspective, [**_Scars_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11061180), that immediately follows this installment.
> 
> There's also another bonus ficlet from Lucius Fox's point of view—[ ** _Loneliness, Love_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11170998)—that's set much later on this same evening.


	25. Heliotrope

Edward leaned close to the brand-new mirror, squinting at his freshly-shorn cheek while he tapped at the glass. Satisfied with the sound created by his fingernails' impact, he stepped back again, side-eyeing Oswald, who hadn't quite finished shaving in front of the second basin. 

He wasn't accustomed to so much space at a single bathroom counter, let alone more than one sink.

Oswald's pale-eyed reflection met Edward's gaze, lips twitching as he completed the task at hand.

“You'd think nobody gave you a say in the construction materials,” he said. “Are you satisfied?”

Edward returned Oswald's tentative smile, tapping his fingernails along the edge of the counter.

“They told us that what I helped you pick out, based on those images, was colored marble,” he said, dotting the flecks of red interspersed with dark veins through the high-polished stone, “but the neat thing is...” He ran his fingertips along the rough underside of the counter's edge, watching his reflection's smile widen. “This is actually silicone dioxide, trigonal crystalline structure. Mohs scale hardness of six-point-five to seven, vitreous luster. _Classic_ bloodstone, also known as heliotrope. Not to be confused with _Heliotropum arborescens_ , a perennial originally native to Peru and known for its vanilla-like fragrance, _or_ with the verb-form of the word, which indicates a turn toward—”

“Your birthstone,” Oswald interrupted, rinsing his face, patting it dry with a towel. “Semiprecious.”

Edward turned to face Oswald. The intrusion was unexpected, but not unwelcome. And _accurate_.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” he said, pleased that Oswald had kept them on topic for once instead of derailing. “April first. Don't bother to make a joke. _Yours_ , July twenty-sixth, carries sardonyx in the same capacity. Black and white, interesting, where mine's green and red. Almost as if—”

“The bigger coincidence, Ed,” said Oswald, dropping the towel in the sink, his tone acquiring an edge of eager impatience, “is that one of the precious stones our birth-dates happen to share is diamond.”

Edward kissed him, tugging Oswald so fiercely, suddenly close that in his arms that he _squeaked_. The press of Oswald's palms against [the previous night's abrasions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11061180) on Edward's back—still startlingly tender to the touch, but not unbearably so—made Edward shiver.

“Appropriate,” he said against Oswald's mouth, grinning, “seeing as we've proved unbreakable.”

Oswald drew back, studying Edward's features, fingers splayed against Edward's shoulder blades.

“You'll be twenty-eight before I know it, won't you,” he murmured. “I shouldn't feel this old.”

“You'll be thirty-two, what's your point,” replied Edward, sarcastically. “Four years, oh _no_.”

“I guess I could have done worse,” said Oswald, an obvious tease, “but sometimes it feels like ten.”

“Today is Friday, January twenty-ninth, two thousand and sixteen,” Edward pointed out helpfully. “That means you have two months and three days, _four_ if you count today, to decide what you're getting me for a gift. And I think it's safe to say you should steer clear of puzzle boxes.”

“You're so fond of the one you've got,” Oswald scoffed. “It has a place of honor on your desk.”

“That's the idea,” Edward sighed, turning Oswald toward the door, steering him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. “If it's the only one you ever get me, it remains unique. As it should be.”

“I'm not getting you a set of those scented markers, that's for sure,” Oswald retorted, hands on Edward's against his shoulders, dragging him to the dressing table. “God knows what you'd do with them.”

“Draw on you while you're asleep,” Edward suggested playfully, leaving a disdainful Oswald to select the day's underwear while he fled up the hall to fetch his own. “I'd start with your nose.”

“As would most people, I'm _sure_!” Oswald shouted. “Not to spoil your fun, but Gabe and I have a number of site-checks to cary out this weekend. I know you won't want to hear this, but I need you to stay behind in case anyone drops by. I'm expecting a report from Barbara, and you know how fond she is of making unannounced visits. Are you in the mood to deal with her?”

“My mood is neither here, nor there!” Edward called back, pulling on his boxers and undershirt as quickly as possible. He gathered up the rest of what he needed, nearly dropping his socks on the way back to Oswald. “You know I can handle her,” he said, carelessly dumping the lot on their unmade bed, having acclimated himself to risking a few wrinkles. “What's the report?”

“I've had them keeping an eye on Duke and Santino,” said Oswald, seated on his stool in front of the dressing-table mirror, busy working pomade-covered fingers through his hair. “Meanwhile, I've also had Victor keeping an eye on them. Can you guess at my endgame?”

“You want to see if the stories match,” said Edward, shrugging into his button-down shirt. “Swell.”

“So far, they've proved trustworthy in this unlikely accord,” Oswald went on, twisting the jagged pieces that brushed his forehead into dagger-sharp points. “But that Barbara's a _restless_ soul.”

“I'll commit it to memory. Annotate it to the letter,” said Edward, leaving his shirt loose as he came up behind Oswald. He slid his hands beneath Oswald's undershirt, savoring warm skin. “I promise.”

“As much as I'd love to tumble you as thoroughly as yesterday,” sighed Oswald, all coquettish levity, “I'm kind of on a schedule. Adulting, Ed. I know you're not necessarily a fan, but needs must.”

“Overrated,” Edward said, withdrawing his hands in disappointment. “Will you make it up to me?”

“Every second you're in my bed makes up for the time we foolishly lost,” said Oswald. “Of course.”

Once he'd finished dressing, Edward helped Oswald with his eye make-up. There was something soothing about the steady, yet challenging repetition of applying eyeliner and mascara—provided he was applying it to someone else. Much though he'd been fascinated by how he'd looked in it the night of the Founders' Dinner, the irritation he'd experienced had come just shy of allergic reaction.

“Here,” Oswald said, plucking Edward's tie pin off the dressing table, placing it for him as Edward set aside both tubes. “ _So_ charming. I haven't seen you in a sweater vest since...November.”

 _Since just after Arkham_ , Edward thought, eternally grateful of Oswald's instinctive avoidance.

“I figured it might behoove me to play the part,” he said, deadpan, adjusting Oswald's tie in kind once Oswald had gotten his hands out of the way. He walked forward on his knees, situating himself even closer between Oswald's spread thighs. “Today, I'm your clerically-inclined housewife.”

“Don't take this the wrong way,” Oswald said, “but you pull off the sexy librarian look far too well.”

“I was hoping you'd say something like that,” Edward replied breathily, kissing him long and slow. “Worth it. Especially if I've got a shot at you wanting to blow me while I'm reading, best of both—”

“I'll blow you while you're doing just about _anything_ ,” Oswald cut in, setting a finger against Edward's lips. “You know that. Just not while breakfast's waiting and Gabe is getting impatient.”

“I could blow _you_ while you're reading,” Edward offered slyly, helping Oswald get to his feet.

“It's a date,” Oswald agreed, precisely the kind of flirtatious that Edward had hoped to invoke. “Later.”

“Dammit,” Edward sighed, letting Oswald lead him into the hall and downstairs. “It was worth a shot.”

Olga kept her presence to a minimum while they ate, making no move to apologize for the fact their omelets and hashbrowns had gone cold.

Edward picked at his bacon, finding it crunchy enough to reduce to pleasing slivers. He thought of Vee's avoidance, wondering if there'd been anything behind it. The practice had reminded him of his mother, which was preferable to being reminded of his father.

Oswald hurried in order to finish the contents of his plate. He wiped his mouth with the nearest napkin, which happened to be Edward's, and got to his feet. Grabbing his cane, he stepped up beside Edward's chair and bent to kiss Edward's forehead. Edward gave Oswald his full attention.

“Take your time, my love,” Oswald said, kissing him on the mouth. “Eat up. You're looking less pale.”

“I'm not ill,” Edward insisted, catching Oswald's hand against his cheek. “Just...recalibrating.”

“I'd sooner toss that pillbox in the harbor than let you hang onto it, empty or not,” Oswald admitted.

“Well, you know that it's empty because it's been on the nightstand for two days,” Edward told him.

“Let's make sure it stays there,” Oswald proposed, trailing his hand along the back of Edward's chair as he headed toward the entryway. “I'll be back by early evening. Think about...what you're hungry for.”

“Not _this_ ,” Edward muttered, moodily pushing around the remaining fragments of his bacon.

Once Oswald was gone, Edward shoved his plate toward the center of the table and called for Olga.

“This is better than you have been doing,” she commented, reaching around him to lift the plate as he finished his tea, “but still not very good. I go and make you some egg white with nothing in it?”

“Don't bother,” Edward said, handing her his teacup, rising from the table. “I've lost my appetite.”

“He will only be gone like normal work day,” Olga consoled him with a pat on the arm. “Not long.”

Edward retrieved the unopened _Gazette_ from the far end of the table, making his way over to the sofa. He reclined, grateful he hadn't bothered with shoes, slipping the paper out of its covering.

“I do not mean to pry,” said Olga, coming back in to clear the rest of the dishes, “but are the drugs—”

“Gone,” said Edward, curtly, with a put-upon sigh, not looking up from the paper. “Oswald's relieved.”

“And no more wild plans?” Olga prompted, coming over to pointedly tap his shoulder with the teapot.

Edward's eye fell on the latest advertisement for a new production of _Hamlet_ at the Gotham Opera House. It was opening the next day. He'd always been rather fascinated with the play, and he could never decide whether he felt sorriest for Horatio or for Ophelia. He related to them both.

“None,” he said, moving on to peruse the day's crossword. “Although I wish Oswald would take me to the theater. I don't suppose he'd have time for something like that this weekend.”

“Actor playing lead, he got bad press during previews last week,” Olga sniffed. “Wait for better show.”

“You don't see _Hamlet_ for Hamlet,” Edward muttered, having already deciphered half of the puzzle without so much as a writing utensil in hand. “You see it for how he interacts with the others.”

“That poor girl,” Olga agreed, retreating back to the dining table. “She gets the short end of the stick.”

“Shallow end of the brook is more like it,” Edward muttered, reaching for Oswald's pen on the coffee table. “Ophelia's caught in crossfire she doesn't deserve. Meanwhile, Horatio arguably suffers more.”

“Cannot keep crazy boyfriend from making unwise decisions,” Olga remarked. “Yes, I know it well.”

Edward glanced up, delighted. “That's a popular-media misquote, but I enjoy your sense of humor.”

“You are not the part in this story you think you are,” Olga replied severely, retreating. “Take care.”

For the next hour, Edward made his listless way through the trickier bits of the crossword. When the doorbell rang, he almost dropped Oswald's pen. He set it back down on the table and tossed the paper aside, about to get up when Olga, motioning for him to stay put, bustled through.

“I am no use if you do not let me answer,” she scolded, continuing to the entryway. “Dishes can wait.”

Edward positioned himself with as much insouciant authority as he could as Olga escorted Barbara in.

“Hiya, Eddie,” she said brightly, her gloved hands unnaturally still on her expensive handbag as she approached him. “Long time no see. Word on the street says that you've been one busy, _naughty_ boy.”

“Not that long,” said Edward, sardonically. “I’ll allow you to call me that because we have history, but for all intents and purposes in our… _professional_ context, my name is the Riddler.”

“So you said at our last heart-to-heart,” she said, indicating the paper, “and so the headlines confirm.”

Laughing at her, Edward leaned forward and indicated that she should pull up one of the armchairs.

“Now, why are you here?” he asked, noting that her smile had an unreadable quality. “Oswald is out.”

“Same old, same old,” Barbara retorted, making a conductor's motions with one hand. “Your hubby wants a fortnightly report—who even _says_ fortnightly anymore? Surely he told you I might make a house call. Tabby sends her warmest regards. Sex hangover. We went at it a little too hard.”

Edward thinly returned her smile. “What did we say last time about being on a need-to-know basis?”

Shrugging, Barbara watched Olga continue cleaning off the table. “That one doesn't miss a trick, huh.”

“I have to make nice with you, but it doesn't mean I _like_ you,” Edward snapped. “Your report?”

“And just how _have_ you managed to keep your legal name out of the papers?” Barbara asked.

“Number one, even if they have my riddles, they don't have tangible proof,” Edward replied testily. “Number two, even if they have strong suspicion, the good old GCPD always did handle me with kid gloves. Number three, I strongly suspect they don't _dare_ mess with Penguin's spouse.”

“Gosh, it must be _great_ to be Queen,” Barbara gushed. “Duke and Santino are boring as fuck.”

“That doesn't necessarily tell me what they've been up to,” said Edward, tapping his cheek, catching Olga's eye as she finished wiping down the table. “Olga, would you please make us some tea?”

“ _Da_ , Edward,” she said warmly, heading back to the kitchen. “And I will also bring biscuits.”

“Impressive, how nice you've made with the help,” said Barbara, _sotto voce_ , once she'd disappeared.

“Olga's a valued member of our household,” Edward countered, adjusting his glasses. “Your. Report.”

Barbara rolled her eyes, sighing dramatically. “ _Fine_. There's been some trouble at the docks.”

Edward leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands poised. “Do tell. What kind of trouble?”

“While Ozzie dearest was mayor,” Barbara began, her smile fluctuating between her usual insincere mask and the aspect Edward couldn't name, “did either of you ever hear of a mysterious group? One that controlled the levers of power in Gotham from the shadows with total impunity?”

“No,” said Edward, with caution, dangerously intrigued, “but something your charming wife said during our aforementioned chat in December…jogged my memory on that score, so to speak.”

“See,” Barbara said patronizingly, “I didn’t claw my way to the top alongside you losers only to find out there was someone above us. I've been trying to find out who they are—I mean, above and beyond the sketchy, handed-down rumors Tabby knows because she comes from a long line of disgraced nobility—but no one in this town seems to know anything about them.”

“And how is it that _you_ know something more than Tabitha's rumors?” Edward prompted her.

Barbara's expression shifted to something frank, even worried. “Jim Gordon put me onto them.”

“And what is _his_ interest in all this?” Edward pressed, interest piqued past the breaking-point.

“He didn't say,” Barbara sighed, shoring up her defenses. “But he _did_ ask me to investigate a shipment coming into Dock 9C yesterday. The harbormaster was protecting a crate from Indian Hill.”

Edward felt lightheaded, realizing too late that he'd scarcely taken a breath throughout their exchange.

“What was inside?” he demanded, taking several measured breaths, utterly ecstatic at the prospect.

 _That's right_ , said his mirror-voice, mind-fog a menacing green. _The one that got away_.

 _Hey, now_ , Kristen scolded, curls of subtle red interspersing. _I take slight offense at that._

Momentarily, Edward dug his fists into his temples to shut them up, anxious that Barbara might notice.

“I don't know,” Barbara ranted, seemingly too wrapped up in frustration to react to Edward's gesture. “Before I got a chance to find out, some masked assassin slaughtered half my men.” She made a helpless gesture. “What do _you_ know? What did Tabby jog loose in that scary noggin?”

“When I was at Indian Hill, Professor Strange hinted at some powerful, secret group,” Edward said, gesturing for emphasis, “but he didn't tell me who they were. This is the one riddle that got away.”

“They're more than just a riddle, _Ed_ ,” Barbara snapped. “They exist, they've shipped God-knows- _what_ into the city, and they're going to use it to make a move,” she said, at wits' end. “And let's face it—a move against Gotham? Is a move against you and Oswald.”

 _Tempting, isn't it?_ asked his mirror-voice. _A chance to trap the high and mighty?_

 _Solve the riddle_ , whispered Kristen, taunting as she retreated, _save your husband_.

Just then, Olga came in with the tea service and tin of biscuits. Edward thanked her as she set it on the coffee table, methodically prepared two cups to his preferred specifications, and offered one to Barbara.

“I will get us the answer we seek,” he said finally, his mind made up, “but I will do it in my own way.”

“You're gonna make a big production of this, aren't you?” Barbara asked, reluctantly accepting the tea.

“Only someone with power and connections would have information on this group,” Edward reasoned, taking a sip. “I need to speak with Gotham's elite, and nothing brings out the bourgeoisie—” Edward's eyes fell on the _Gazette_ , mind instantly alight “—quite like opening night at the theater.”

“Whatcha thinkin', Eddie?” Barbara asked, tapping the handle of her teacup. “I bet Ozzie won't like it.”

Edward took his time munching his tea-soaked biscuit, thinking through a sequence of preliminaries.

“Assuming everything goes according to plan,” he said carefully, considering the fact that Oswald would be thoroughly occupied over the next forty-eight hours, “I won't need to concern him with it.”

“Ballsy,” Barbara replied, snagging a chocolate-covered biscuit when he offered the tin. “As a gesture of good faith, Tabby and I will provide you with back-up. Just keep us out of the spotlight, okay?”

“Of course,” Edward said, gracing her with a dose of her own patronizing manner. “I wouldn't dream of risking harm to the two of you. We've struck an alliance, remember? We're a _team_.”

“It's freaky when you mimic people, you know that?” she told him, setting her untouched tea down on the coffee table. “And kinda sexy, if I'm honest, but you're _so_ not my type beyond looks.”

Edward stayed where he was, letting his glance flick over to Olga, who'd seated herself at the dining table and was playing something on her phone. She got up, tucking the phone back in her apron.

“Fortunately, I have no desire to touch a woman ever again,” he said cuttingly. “Olga, see her out.”

“Good thing,” Barbara taunted over her shoulder. “Penguin would shoot you and push you off a dock.”

Irritated beyond measure, Edward stood up, spun on his heel, and watched Olga see her out the door. 

“You're never to speak like that in my presence again, Ms. Kean,” he seethed as Barbara stepped out.

“Got it, _Riddler_!” she shouted, the end of it muffled as Olga shut the door firmly behind her.

“I do not like it when that one shows up,” Olga said stiffly as Edward snatched the newspaper and caught up with her next to the dining table. “She only means trouble, nothing else.”

“Yes, well,” Edward sighed, adjusting his glasses. “I'll be in the lab for the rest of the day. Please don't disturb me unless I text you for some lunch, or...if anyone else comes knocking.”

Olga nodded hesitantly, withdrawing her handgun from her apron. “I was ready to shoot her, Edward.”

“I appreciate that,” Edward told her, smiling, placing a hand on her arm as he passed. “Very much.”

He spent late morning into early afternoon gathering every piece of information he could find on the Opera House: entrances, exits, staircases, elevators, and floor plans. For city hall and the second-floor mayoral office, he didn't need data; he already knew it like the backs of his hands.

There was the matter of a biker bar on Spaulding and Eighth. He tapped Oswald's pen against his chin, considering the issue that location's instrumentality might pose. He couldn't be in two places at once.

Well, Barbara _had_ pledged her support, and Tabitha was awfully adept with explosives. _Check_.

The most time-consuming portion of his preliminaries, aside from being painfully specific about the nature of both explosive devices in his missive to The Sirens, was the composition of two riddles. He couldn't afford to half-ass either one of them, not like he'd done with the singing telegram.

Edward tugged Oswald's well-thumbed copy of Shakespeare's _Complete Works_ off the shelf. He proceeded to spend the next three hours reading sonnets until his every thought _rang_ with them. At the intersection of riddles and verse, he reasoned, lay true poetry. And he would exceed it.

Unsummoned, Olga interrupted him in the midst of his composition efforts with a tray containing sandwiches and his favorite French-press coffee. He invited her to stay and eat with him, passing off his indecipherable scribbling easily enough in light of the Shakespeare tome on his desk.

“Literature is better than...than _those things_ ,” she remarked, waving her hand at the test-tubes and beakers across the room. “Maybe you will become a writer instead. Publish under pen name.”

Edward couldn't help but laugh at the notion, let alone at how near she'd come to one particular mark.

“Do you want to hear something wild?” he said. “I designed the crosswords and number puzzles for my college newspaper. I had a real knack for it. Still do. I could probably make a lot of money.”

“I like to see you thinking this way,” said Olga, approvingly, setting down her empty coffee cup. She rose from the chair she'd pulled up to the side of Edward's desk across from him. “I must go work.”

“Don't work too hard,” Edward teased, gracing her with a wave as she went out. “ _Bye_.”

The instant she'd departed, he closed the heavy antique volume, swept it aside, and got right back to work. Some part of him felt dreadful for deceiving her—and, by extension, for deceiving Oswald in the wake of their accord. But secrets held nuance above and beyond their definitions.

 _What happens in Oswald's absence doesn't constitute secrets_ , Edward's mirror-voice confirmed.

 _Need-to-know basis_ , Kristen added, _covers you needing to know the answer to that riddle, right?_

“Right,” Edward muttered, reading over his handiwork, teeth clenched on the clip-end of Oswald's pen.

Someone shook him awake from where he'd fallen across the flurry of papers in front of him, frantic.

“Ed, you don't look so hot,” said Caroline, tapping his cheek as he lifted his head and blinked at her.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, hastily shuffling his papers into a pile, shoving them inside the Shakespeare volume. “Weren't you driving Oswald and Gabe around today?”

“Yeah, and they're still outside havin' a chat with Vee and Vic,” she said. “Olga tells me you're off the sauce and that you've taken up writing poetry. How's that, uh, workin' out for you?”

Edward grinned at her, hoping it didn't come across as too forced, and patted the book's worn cover.

“It's quite the challenge,” he said, rising from his desk, beckoning for her to follow him over to the door. “Invigorating, really. Maybe I'll show you some of it once I'm happy with the drafts.”

Caroline shrugged, standing aside while he locked the laboratory behind them. “Sure, I'd like that.”

Oswald came in the front door just then, cane clutched in the crook of his arm as he peeled off the gloves that Edward had gotten him as a replacement for the ones they'd ruined. He looked tired.

“There you are,” he said to Caroline, setting his gloves aside next to the family photographs, hanging his coat. “Ms. Aragon is getting impatient,” he continued. “Says the two of you have dinner plans?”

“Yeah, we're headin' over to Casa del Zsasz for the evening,” Caroline said, sticking her thumbs in her pockets as she brushed past Oswald and headed for the door. “There's gonna be curry and Cards Against Humanity. You wouldn't wanna miss it when Candy and Yoona cook together.”

“I'm going to pretend I know what _any_ of that means,” said Oswald, dismissively, intent on approaching Edward. “Good evening, Caroline.” He touched Edward's cheek, tugging him down by his tie for a lingering kiss that made Edward sway where he stood. “Olga says dinner's ready.”

“Yay,” Edward managed, chasing Oswald's mouth as Oswald withdrew, which resulted in Oswald pinned against the wall and Caroline scoffing at them as Olga shuffled her out. “What're we having?”

“If you don't eat what's put in front of you,” Oswald said sternly, the abrupt push of his hips against Edward's the real key to his meaning, “I _swear_ you won't get any dessert.”

“I haven't had anything since mid-afternoon,” Edward said reassuringly as Oswald tugged him back through the entryway, and then to their right toward the head of the dining table. “So I'm starved.”

Oswald kept flirting to a minimum throughout the main course, which Edward supposed was for the better. He had plenty of questions about Barbara's visit, and the answers Edward gave were, perforce, significantly composed of embellishments. It was enough for him to know that Duke and Santino, according to Barbara, were keeping their end of the bargain.

Edward was relieved not only that Oswald believed the parts that hadn't passed Barbara's lips, but also that Zsasz's surveillance on Duke and Santino corroborated them. Lying came as easily to Edward as buckling under the strain of truth came to others, although the price was high.

 _The Sirens have got your back_ , Kristen murmured, a tendril of carnelian in the black-veined green jasper void. _If they know what's good for them and for Gotham, they won't fail you. But if they do, then you know exactly where you're going._

“Heliotrope,” Edward said into his wine, listening as Oswald nattered on. “To turn toward the light.”

“What was that?” blurted Oswald, interrupting himself mid-sentence. “I'm sorry, but I didn't catch it.”

“Words,” Edward replied with a grin, gulping down half the glass of red. “Words, words. Just words.”

“Olga tells me you've been dabbling in them today,” remarked Oswald, noting Edward's near-empty plate with unabashed pleasure. “She said you had my Shakespeare down off the shelf.”

“Nobody else came along after Barbara,” said Edward, with a gleeful shrug, “so I occupied myself.”

“It is _so_ good to see you taking up alternative pursuits,” said Oswald, drawing Edward's free hand up to his lips with feeling. “I can't even begin to tell you. May I see some of your work?”

“When it's done,” Edward demurred, shivering at the kisses Oswald dotted across his knuckles.

“You don't have to finish that,” said Oswald, coyly, indicating the few shreds of lamb left on the bone in front of Edward. “I think you've been on your _best_ behavior. How about that date?”

“Which date?” Edward asked, thoughts scattered by how alluringly Oswald's pale eyes swept over him.

“The one I promised this morning,” replied Oswald, dabbing his mouth, never once releasing Edward's right hand as he pushed back his chair and stepped up to Edward's. “Involving...printed matter?”

“Oh,” said Edward, too eagerly, setting down his wine glass. “Yes. I've been practicing all day.”

“Olga!” Oswald shouted, tugging Edward to his feet. “Go home! Leave the table for tomorrow morning!”

“ _Da_!” she called back, footsteps already echoing in the entryway. “I have guessed as much!”

“That course is having an effect,” Edward commented, holding Oswald close as they waited for her to finish buttoning her coat and exit the premises. “Her syntax is changing. I find it easier to follow.”

“Good evening,” said Olga, causing both of them to turn their heads. “Do not leave too much disaster.”

“We won't!” Edward called as she pulled the door shut behind her. “Nothing in the kitchen, I promise!”

Oswald pulled him back into a kiss that would have scandalized even the most seasoned of their staff.

“I haven't had the chance to read today's _Gazette_ ,” he said matter-of-factly against Edward's mouth, releasing him with uncharacteristic roughness. “I don't know where you keep the periodicals,” he added prissily, looking Edward up and down with a hint of disdain. “Go get it for me.”

“ _Ah_ ,” said Edward, mind catching up with what his body had already registered. “Of course.”

By the time he unlocked the laboratory, fetched the newspaper, relocked it, and returned to the sitting room, Oswald had removed his jacket and shoes and settled himself on the sofa. He looked bored.

Edward brought the _Gazette_ to Oswald, primly taking a seat next to him as he handed it over.

“Today's edition,” he offered, wondering to what extent he ought to be in-character. “Mr. Cobblepot.”

Oswald snatched the paper out of Edward's hand and shook it open. “You're sitting too close,” he said.

The echo threw off sparks in Edward's synapses, sent them shivering down his spine to perfection.

“Of course,” he said hastily, pushing back the coffee table before getting down on his knees next to Oswald's sock-covered feet. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so...familiar,” he said, satisfied to note that Oswald couldn't resist lowering the paper just enough to see that Edward was looking up at him through both his glasses and half-lowered lashes.

“You're a nuisance,” Oswald said, raising the _Gazette_. “Why don't you make yourself useful?”

Instead of responding verbally, Edward shifted over so that he knelt directly in front of Oswald. He tugged both of Oswald's socks off in tandem, eliciting a gasp from behind the newspaper. He took both of Oswald's feet in hand, massaging each taut tendon along the arches with his thumbs.

Oswald didn't start to unravel until Edward had worked his way up the backs of Oswald's calves, pausing as his fingertips worked into the sensitive hollows behind Oswald's knees. Oswald shuddered; the _Gazette_ was in danger of taking very real damage.

“Don't tickle me,” he said breathlessly, pink-cheeked, setting the paper aside. “Don't _tease_.”

“I thought you knew what kind of reading room this was,” Edward warned. “Otherwise, why bother?”

Oswald pouted, doubtless about to say something insufferable, but Edward let his hands circle around to the fronts of Oswald's knees before pushing them up his spread thighs. Oswald gasped.

“Try the Arts and Entertainment section,” Edward recommended, handing the paper back to him before he got down to business unfastening Oswald's trousers and perfunctorily untucking his shirt.

“That's...kind of you,” Oswald managed, the tremors in his hands causing the paper to rattle. “It says here there's a...a production of _Hamlet_ opening tomorrow evening at the Opera House.”

“Not to be missed,” agreed Edward, the miasma of color behind his eyelids flaring, vivid as bloodstone, as he unbuttoned the damp front of Oswald's underwear. “It'll be a real _tour de force_.”

“The previews suggested otherwise,” Oswald replied behind the paper, his voice deliciously strained.

“Opening night's got a certain... _je ne sais quoi_ ,” Edward insisted, taking Oswald's erection in hand, making sure his breath teased at the head. He nuzzled the underside until Oswald was a shivering mess. “They'll be talking about it for years.”

“You're starting to annoy me again,” Oswald sighed, without any real malice. “You wanted dessert?”

Edward decided not to dignify that with any response short of sucking most of Oswald's length into his mouth, so that's exactly what he did. He closed his eyes again, enjoying Oswald's strangled cry.

“Oh, _Ed_ ,” Oswald whimpered, from the sound of things tossing the paper over the arm of the sofa. He threaded all ten fingers through Edward's hair, bringing both hands down to cradle the base of Edward's skull as he sucked. “You're so good to me. I love seeing you like this, I _love_ —”

“ _Mmm-hmmm_ ,” Edward agreed, letting his teeth scrape lightly up the underside of Oswald's cock as he shifted his focus to lavishing attention on the tip. “I know,” he panted, drunk on the fine, familiar texture of Oswald's skin against his tongue.

“Don't—” Oswald moaned, his head falling back, pushing up into Edward's mouth “—let me come.”

“Why?” asked Edward, perplexed, pulling off so that he could let Oswald's cock rest in one palm while he delivered light, soothing strokes with the other. “I want you to," he added, leaning up to nip at Oswald's exposed throat. "Preferably _soon_.”

Oswald tipped his chin down, breathing so raggedly that Edward's cock throbbed with a spike of want.

“Wouldn't you rather take me upstairs,” he asked, stroking Edward's cheeks, “and fuck me senseless?”

Edward gritted his teeth, letting the swell of air in his chest hiss out through his nose. “ _Yes_ ,” he said.

“Thank God,” Oswald replied—laughing, unsteady as he rose from the sofa—and helped Edward wobble to his feet in kind. “I'm tired of reading.”

Once they'd gotten upstairs, undressing happened a lot faster than usual in spite of the fact that each refused to keep his hands out of the other's way. For as wound-up as they were, Edward spent an inordinate amount of time spooned up against Oswald's right side, nibbling the salt-sweet stretch of Oswald's collarbone, and teasing Oswald's twitching cock with as much lubricant as they could spare.

“You're putting it in the wrong place, we are _not_ having a repeat of the other night,” Oswald moaned, mouthing adoring kisses against Edward's forehead all the same. “When I say I'd like you to fuck me, this time I really _do_ mean—”

“I know what you mean, Oswald,” Edward huffed, removing his hand from Oswald's erection, slicking away as much of the lubricant as he could in the process. He rolled away from Oswald, which got him a disappointed groan, and shakily applied it to himself. “Give me a minute,” he panted, dizzy as he sat up, settling back on his vaguely sore knees. "Let me do this right."

The mattress shifted as Edward situated himself between Oswald's spread thighs, and he took a moment to appreciate what was in front of him. Oswald was a devastating wreck, his carefully-arranged hair now shoved back from his forehead in sweat-tinged disarray. Edward slicked himself until he was at risk of getting most of the lubricant on their fine sheets, and then turned his hand on Oswald.

“Ed,” Oswald hissed, squirming impatiently, drawing his knees up to his chest. “I won't _break_.”

Edward bit down hard on his lower lip, two fingers deep in Oswald and _aching_ with the delay.

“You don't mind pain any more than I do, I guess,” he said, withdrawing his hand, positioning himself.

In retrospect, he would have liked to have bound Oswald's wrists and slung Oswald's arms around his neck like Oswald had done with him the previous evening. Satisfying enough, however, to find himself buried to the hilt and slamming into Oswald as if both their lives depended on it.

He kissed Oswald's cries back into his mouth with desperate fervor, savoring the feel of Oswald's fingernails digging into his backside. So careful to avoid Edward's back, so careful even now that he was lost in pleasure too wrenching to articulate. He sighed.

“You're my everything,” he told Oswald, slowing his movements to accommodate the pace dictated by the way Oswald clutched at him. “Whatever else happens, I...want you to know that,” he gasped.

“Ed,” Oswald whimpered, trembling all over, eyes shut tight. “I _know_. Shut up and kiss me; I'm close.”

“I know that,” Edward said, driving into him, willingly giving over to the sound of Oswald's bliss.

Afterward, he curled in on himself while Oswald, fretting like no tomorrow, dabbed at his back and his ass-cheeks with witch hazel. He wanted to tell Oswald he didn't deserve this kind of care, had wanted to tell him as much since the evening he'd first been served tea with ginger and honey.

He couldn't get the words past his lips, could only sniffle into the pillow and clutch at Oswald's arm.

“Go to sleep, my love,” Oswald murmured, leaning across Edward to turn out the light. “You're fine.”

 _Nothing about this is fine_ , Edward thought, too drowsy for his underlying voices to chime in.

Hours and hours later, waking to Oswald's soft kisses and reassurances that breakfast would be waiting for him downstairs was little comfort. He clung to Oswald's neck, but couldn't beg him not to go. The words remained lodged in his chest, piercing as shards of stone.

“I'll be back later this evening than I was last night,” said Oswald, regretfully, stroking Edward's hair.

“Okay,” Edward said, tight-lipped, not even fully awake. “I'll be waiting for you. I'll be right here.”

After eating breakfast with only Olga for company, Edward made his way back upstairs. He took a shower as long and hot as he could stand it, a kind of pre-emptive penance. With the original space tripled, to scrub down in it alone felt sacrilegious.

Edward dressed before Oswald's triptych mirror, green from head to toe as dazzling as he could stand. For finishing touches, he donned the mask and his glasses overtop of it. The brim of his hat cast a shadow, ominous as the drop of a curtain.

“Showtime,” he said, tucking the worn favor of an embroidered handkerchief into his breast pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Candy and Yoona are raven_aorla's names for two of the so-called Zsaszettes. It's a reference over to her [**_Inches and Miles_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10651950), where she's been making all kinds of references to _WYFIR_ since the start (Caroline and Vee have been regular guest stars).


	26. Hellebore

Oswald leaned hard into his palm, ignoring the pain in his elbow where it rested against the limousine door. He scarcely registered the scenery as it whizzed by through the frosted glass. He considered all of the things he'd rather be doing.

Beside him, further away than Edward normally would have sat, Gabriel snickered at his cell phone.

“Care to share with the class?” Oswald retorted, yawning. “ _Please_ tell me we're almost done.”

“Four down, one more to go,” Gabriel said, snapping his phone shut. “You're gonna like this last visit.”

“Seeing as I've been to all of these places before,” replied Oswald, “I can't imagine what I'm bound to find exciting about _any_ of them. Although Santino's cash delivery was...pleasing. And on time for once, which helps us a lot.”

“Oh, you ain't seen nothin' yet, boss,” said Gabriel, pleased with himself. “I saved the best for last.”

Oswald lifted his head, letting his hand fall into his lap. “What is this, reconnaissance on a potential new drop-site?” he asked, jaw tightening in anger. “How many times have I told you? I'm not interested in being first on-premises until you or Victor or _somebody_ has had a look.” He squinted out the window, realizing where they were. “We're almost home anyway.”

“We've gotta go _past_ home,” Gabriel explained, “and into the boonies behind Wayne Manor.”

“Nobody lives out there,” said Oswald, disdainfully, tugging his phone out of his jacket. “Those properties fell into ruin a long time ago. Now, they're probably inhabited by raccoons and the occasional transient.” He flipped it open, noting a text from Olga. “Waste of time.”

“You'll be interested in one of the properties,” Gabriel said. “Looks more intact than the others. The house ain't too overgrown, and there's what looks like a greenhouse out back. It has possibilities.”

“You make it sound as if we're about to be on an episode of _House Hunters_ ,” Oswald sneered, opening Olga's text. His eyes tracked over the screen several times, not understanding what he saw. The missive was so inane as to not make sense.

 _Edward got dressed up and left the house after breakfast_ , it read. _He took the spare car_.

“We need a place closer to the mansion, boss,” Gabriel told him. “In case of emergencies. Maybe as a gun-stash or somethin'. I wouldn't want cash drops happenin' there unless you think it's wise.”

 _Why are you telling me this?_ Oswald texted back. _He gets bored. I'm sure he'll be fine._

“I suppose you have a point,” he said aloud, hoping Gabriel would be appeased. “I'll take a look at it.”

 _It is almost six o'clock_ , Olga pointed out. _I thought you could take him to the show_.

“It's another ten or fifteen minutes out,” Gabriel explained, rapping on the partition. “Ain't it, Cee?”

“Who the _what_ now?” Caroline asked as she opened the partition. “What's the problem?”

“I was just tellin' boss that we don't have too much further to go,” Gabriel explained. “He's antsy.”

“Look, I know you're tired,” Caroline said, “but Gabe tells me this old place is fuckin' spectacular.”

“Fine, I'm sold,” Oswald sighed, biting his lip as he considered the text, remembering _Hamlet_.

 _I'll try to be home soon, but no promises_ , he typed. _Ed's probably found something to do_.

 _You know what happens when he finds things to do_ , Olga cautioned. _I must work now._

Oswald snapped his phone shut and put it back in his jacket, distinctly irritated that he hadn't thought to reserve tickets for opening night. Unfavorable previews or not, Edward would've enjoyed himself.

“Somethin' wrong, boss?” Gabriel asked, his heavy brow furrowed in concern. “What's he done now?”

“If you mean _Ed_ , he's done nothing!” Oswald snapped. “Olga was asking me about dinner.”

“It's gonna be fine, Mr. C,” Caroline promised. “I asked Vic and Vee to meet us out there. Sorted.”

Their arrival on the run-down property was far more dramatic than Oswald had been anticipating. The pine-lined lane leading up to the estate was patchy gravel and packed earth, and he couldn't resist rolling down his window to take in the winter-sharp, needle-scented air. After half a mile, it opened onto patchy, snow-flecked grass and a circular front drive around a crumbling stucco fountain.

The house was white. One-level, turreted, sprawling, and idyllic. Lights glowed softly inside, and Zsasz stood to one side of the front entrance while Vee stood to the other. Both of them had guns drawn.

“Somethin' ain't right,” Gabriel muttered as Caroline pulled up parallel to the hit-pair. “What's this?”

Zsasz came over to Oswald's open window, leaning partially inside. “We've got an issue here, boss.”

“Would you care to just get to the point, Victor,” suggested Oswald, testily, “and tell me what it is?”

“As you can see,” said Vee, coming over to join Zsasz, “somebody's restored the electrical wiring.”

“So what you're sayin' is that there's somebody inside?” Gabriel asked blankly. “Somebody got their hands on this place in the coupla weeks since we caught wind of it bein' up here?”

“You'll wanna be careful goin' in,” Caroline agreed. “Want me to come along for the adventure?”

“No,” Vee said, opening Oswald's door for him. “You're going to stay outside. You've had too much—”

“Nuh-uh, we aren't playin' that,” Caroline said, hastily exiting the limousine as Oswald crunched onto the driveway cane-first. “I'm not watchin' you go in some spooky place that might be booby trapped.”

“I won't object to the extra firepower,” Zsasz said, waiting until Gabriel had gotten out, too. “Let's go.”

“ _Jerk_ ,” Vee hissed at Caroline as the two of them strode warily ahead of Oswald and Gabriel.

“Takes one to know one,” Caroline shot back, but Oswald could tell from her tone she was smiling.

Zsasz was slightly ahead of the women, so he reached the door first. It swung inward without resistance when he turned the knob, which caused him to turn and shrug at Oswald and Gabriel.

“What are you waiting for?” Oswald prompted impatiently, planting his hands on his cane. “Go on.”

The five of them moved from dimly-lit room to dimly-lit room, noting that the occupant, whoever they were, had left a baffling array of cereal boxes and other random snack foods open on almost every available surface.

Every surface that _wasn't_ available was home to some kind of potted plant.

Oswald put on his gloves, extending one hand toward a vine that had begun its descent up the china cabinet, noting the unusual lobed leaves. Its purple blossoms wielded bright yellow stamens, threatening. He shivered with the sense of its name on his tongue.

“ _Solanum dulcamara_ ,” he murmured, remembering Edward's brief lecture. “Fascinating.”

“Instead of a crazy cat person, looks like we got a crazy plant person,” Caroline remarked snidely.

“Says the crazy betta lady,” Vee muttered under her breath. “You're gonna end up with like ten.”

“Need I remind you that if we don't keep our mouths _shut_ ,” Oswald said, “we might die.”

“Yeah, sure,” Zsasz remarked cheerfully, leading them all the way through into the back parlor. “The person who's living here is packing so much heat it's gotta be hidden in all those flower pots.”

The door between the back parlor and the greenhouse was wide open, so they passed through it.

“Oh, hey,” said the figure in a tattered green coat, turning to regard them with wide blue-grey eyes.

Zsasz stopped in his tracks, as if uncertain of how to proceed. “Hi there. We don't wanna hurt you.”

“For people who don't wanna hurt me,” said the redhead, calmly puzzled, “you've got lots of guns.”

Oswald lowered his pistol and put it back in his jacket, faintly annoyed. “What are you doing here?”

“Man, you've got a lot of nerve, asking me that,” said the young woman. “I've got squatter's rights.”

“Dang,” said Vee, under her breath, side-eyeing Caroline in her cap-less state. “You could be cousins.”

“We heard this place had been abandoned for a long time,” Gabriel explained, tucking his gun away.

The young woman shrugged, grinning at Zsasz as she stepped forward to inspect his firearm. She plucked a purple blossom off a potted plant nearby, sniffed it, and stuck it in the barrel. She didn't appear to understand why Zsasz made a face.

Caroline and Vee both lowered their weapons, exchanging bewildered glances, and holstered them.

“I admire your poise in the face of grave danger,” Oswald told the young woman, approaching her with as much wary respect as her peculiar demeanor warranted. He held out his hand, a cue that Zsasz ought to shake the blossom from his gun into it. “What is this?”

“Garden heliotrope,” said the redhead, folding her hands in front of her. “Smells kinda like vanilla.”

Startled, Oswald sniffed it and handed it to her. Indeed, it smelled just as Edward, too, had claimed.

“I'm afraid,” he said as politely as he could, “that playtime is over. We're going to need you to leave.”

The young woman blinked patronizingly at him. “I don't understand,” she said. “This is my house.”

“Nah, see,” Gabriel began, stepping up to pull rank beside Oswald, “this is a house you _found_.”

“Yeah,” said the redhead, smugly, taking a few bold steps forward. “I found it _before_ you guys.”

“Kid, what's your name,” Vee sighed, folding her arms across her chest. “How'd you get here, huh?”

“I'm Ivy,” said the girl, sounding even younger than she had initially. “And I walked here. _Duh_.”

Oswald felt the corner of his mouth quirk at her use of a word in which Edward occasionally indulged. There was something uncannily endearing about her above and beyond parlance, and he couldn't even immediately determine what it was.

“Well,” he said, extending his hand, indicating that she should shake it, “ _Ivy_. My name is Oswald.”

“You look kinda like that guy in the papers,” said Ivy, shaking once up and down. “Like Penguin.”

“That's because he _is_ Pengin, dipshit,” Caroline muttered under her breath. “Jesus Christ.”

Ivy's eyes went wide and delighted as she bounced on the soles of her feet. “Hey, I know about you.”

“That is not, I confess, the reaction that most people have when I turn up on their doorstep,” said Oswald, beginning to lose his patience with the peanut gallery. “Do you have a surname, Ivy?”

“A what?” she asked, her brow furrowed. “My name's Ivy Pepper. That's the only name I've got.”

“Miss Pepper,” Oswald began, spinning on his heel, making a slow circuit of the central space in which they stood. Various fronds and petals brushed at him as he inspected the greenery, aware that the others were watching him with an air of uncertainty. “We might come to some kind of arrangement regarding your unorthodox tenure here,” he continued. “How do you feel about guns? Do they scare you?”

Ivy shrugged, her attention now fixed on Gabriel as she toyed with something on the chain at her neck.

“Not really,” she said, dabbing her wrists with the bauble, a curious action. “I grew up around 'em.”

Oswald nodded, unsurprised. She was younger than she looked, and the semi-ragged state of her clothing suggested that she was a gutter rat lower in stature to the one he'd once been himself. He could understand fierce independence in the face of hardship.

“Then I hope you won't be rattled by the business proposition I intend to make,” he replied smoothly.

“I do all kinds of business,” Ivy agreed amicably, moving another step closer to Gabriel. “What is it?”

“I will pay you,” Oswald announced, offering her his least gentle smile, “to store contraband for me.”

Ivy's eyes flicked from Gabriel's face to Oswald's, and then back to Gabriel's again. She rubbed her wrists against her neck, leaning close to the bodyguard, her manner shockingly predatory. She didn't appear to be carrying any kind of weapon.

“Do you like my perfume?” she asked, murmuring directly in Gabriel's ear. “I made it just for you.”

Oswald watched in horrified fascination as Gabriel's features relaxed gradually into beatific adoration.

“Yeah,” Gabriel said, nodding dreamily. “It smells real nice, young lady. Whatcha got in there, roses?”

“Nope,” said Ivy, winking at Oswald. “There's hellebore, a mild psychotropic,” she went on, grinning, “and a bunch of other stuff you wouldn't even _care_ about. So, while we're here, big guy, I've got some questions. Is your boss telling the truth?”

Gabriel blinked at her in besotted confusion. “Tellin' the truth about bein' the Penguin? Yeah, he is.”

“I already _know_ that, silly,” Ivy sighed, crossing her arms. “I meant the other stuff. The job.”

Gabriel nodded readily. “I have no reason to think,” he said slowly, “that boss is lyin' about that.”

Zsasz, Vee, and Caroline all gave Ivy a wide berth as she stepped away from Gabriel toward Oswald.

“Let me guess,” said Oswald, taking a step backward as she approached. “You fancy yourself a witch.”

“Nah, witches are boring,” Ivy said, extending her wrist toward Oswald. “I science the _shit_ out of this stuff, only I don't really know the science. I just picked it up as I went along, you know?”

“That,” said Oswald, firmly, deciding to meet her halfway, “is an approach I can respect.” He took hold of her forearm, lowering it as they stepped face to face. “My intentions toward you are exactly as Gabe just said. I have no reason to lie to you.”

Ivy brought her hand up to her mouth, cupping it as if she had a secret for Oswald and Oswald alone.

“You don't look like the kinda guy who'd go all dopey for a gal like me anyway,” she whispered loudly.

Oswald laughed in sheer delight, watching the others flinch as the sound echoed eerily around them.

“See, now,” he said, pointing at Ivy, making a grand show of it for the others assembled, “ _this_ one's after my own heart. She's even got a sense of humor.” Extending his hand again, he fixed her with a serious glance. “Do we have a deal?”

“I remembered somethin',” Ivy said, her eyes narrowed. “You live, like, just up the road and stuff?”

“More or less,” said Oswald, shrugging. “You're a lot closer to the river, for starters. I'm jealous.”

Ivy shook Oswald's hand more vigorously this time. “Your lover-boy got you kicked out of office,” she said glumly, finally letting go of Oswald's fingers. “Friend of mine was talking about it. What a drag.”

“Edward Nygma is my husband and business partner,” Oswald corrected her, keen to make sure they got off on the right foot. “You'll be answering to both of us, and sometimes to these charming rogues. Don't let Victor frighten you. He's got a marshmallow center.”

Sticking out her lower lip as if suitably impressed, Ivy nodded. “Sweet,” she said. “Can I have a tour of your place since you've seen mine? Seems only fair. You know what _I'm_ all about after nosin' around through my private stuff without any permission.”

Oswald gaped at her, at a loss for words. The kid had more fire to her than even her hair suggested.

“Given your recent dietary choices,” he said cautiously, “perhaps a proper dinner wouldn't go amiss.”

“Hell _yeah_!” Ivy said, punching the air. “Can I meet my other new boss while we're at it?”

“You and Edward will have so much to talk about,” said Oswald, deadpan, “that I might feel left out.”

“ _Boss_ ,” Gabriel hissed, sidling up behind Oswald, the perfume's effect seemingly broken, “you're gonna just... _trust_ her, just like that? Without even conductin' an interrogation or makin' a proper search? We don't know this kid from Adam _or_ Eve.”

“I'd wager she has a lot more in common with the latter,” replied Oswald, snidely. “Be quiet, Gabe.”

“Yes, boss,” Gabriel sighed, falling back into line with Vee and Caroline. “Should we get the car?”

“Yes, that would be _marvelous_ ,” Oswald said thinly, offering Ivy his arm. “In the meantime, why don't you show me the rest of what you have in this...glass menagerie of yours, and explain to me why you find plants so intriguing.”

The remainder of the tour was admittedly whistlestop, if only because most of Ivy's explanations of the plants in her care meant as little to Oswald as most of Edward's info-dumps to similar ends. It made him all the more eager to get home.

Bored, Zsasz trailed after them around the greenhouse; his hand never strayed far from his belt.

On the ride back to the mansion, Ivy chattered so much as to leave Gabriel looking like he wanted nothing more dearly than an escape hatch.

Oswald listened with feigned interest, withdrawing his phone from his jacket. To his irritation, it had gone dead sometime during their visit.

“So is this, like, what you do with _all_ your Saturdays?” Ivy asked as Oswald helped her step out of the limousine. “Go around and make sure the other criminals leave the right amount of money?”

“Not all of them,” said Oswald, leading her toward the door while the others, low-voiced, talked amongst themselves in the driveway. “But quite a few, yes. Edward's often along for the ride, but...”

Olga had already opened the front door. She stared at them, grave, with her smart-phone in hand.

“Something is happening in the city,” she said, too stoically for comfort. “You did not answer texts.”

Oswald turned to face Ivy, at a loss, and then looked back at Olga. “Ivy, this is Olga. Olga, this is...”

“You don't look so hot, Mr. Penguin,” Ivy told him, waving at Olga. “Ivy Pepper. Pleased to meet ya.”

“Oswald,” said Olga, urgently, “I do not know why you have brought home this girl, but Edward is...”

“My phone died,” stammered Oswald, letting go of Ivy's arm, racing to her in alarm. “Olga, _where_ is Ed?”

“I think,” Olga replied fearfully, “television reports from the Opera House will give you that answer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For curious and interested parties, there's a bonus ficlet from Olga's perspective, [**_Against the World_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11195640), that picks up right where this leaves off and extends a little into #27 (seeing as this installment and #27 effectively cover the events of the same day).


	27. Shows Two Faces

In comparison to the crucial preparations on which Edward had spent his morning and afternoon—obtaining and drugging the correct selection of pastries to plant in Mayor James's office, as well as painstakingly drawing question-marks on each side of each pill in his indigestion prescription bottle with a fine-tipped green pen—the task at hand was one to relish.

Even in the moment Edward brought the pommel of the hefty stage-prop sword down on his head, the actor playing Old Hamlet's ghost, waiting in the wings for his cue, never knew what hit him.

Advancing toward the low-lit, mist-covered stage, Edward awaited the words that would usher him in.

“Where wilt thou lead me?” demanded the actor playing Hamlet. “Speak, for I shall go no further.”

Edward closed his eyes at the anticipatory shiver down his spine, reaching around to adjust the way his hat rested against the back-knot of his mask. Satisfied, he sucked in his breath, opening his eyes wide.

 _Remember_ , whispered his mirror-voice, in sheer pleasure at the actor's dismay. _You were destined for this. Made for the spotlight, meant for the stage. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise._

 _You might not wanna take that asshole too seriously_ , Kristen cautioned. _Are you ready?_

“I say, Ghost,” improvised the actor, composure shot, “speak your business, or I shall go no further.”

“My business is not with _you_ , Prince of Denmark,” said Edward, projecting for all he was worth as he made his entrance with the sword borne low in one hand and the other poised above his head, “but with your audience.” He advanced on the hapless actor, letting the sword-tip drag gratingly behind him as an agitated murmur rose in the darkened theater. “I've come to address you, the ruling class of Gotham,” he went on, lowering his left hand in one swift movement to his hip, his internal script and timing, so far, accurate to a fault. “You've kept a secret for far too long,” he added, lifting the sword to point it at the audience in a sweeping gesture, “but, tonight, I will kidnap and torture one of you to expose the truth. So, spread the word to all your friends—the Riddler is coming!”

The actor gaped at Edward as he planted the sword in front of himself—just as Oswald tended to do with his cane, he realized too late—and affected a hat-tipping gesture without removing his bowler.

“Also,” Edward went on, wrapping both hands around the sword's hilt, raising it with muscles taut in readiness, “I found your performance to be wooden and _unrealistic_.” He hit the actor full-force across the back of the head with the flat of the blade, grinning in satisfaction as the man crumpled at his feet and the audience's steady murmur gave way to frantic chatter and intermittent screams.

“And _scene_ ,” concluded Edward, breathless with satisfaction as he dropped the sword and rushed back into the wings. It took all of several seconds to retrieve the green-painted, purple-ribboned gift box he'd prepared for the GCPD and leave it center-stage before fleeing via the emergency exit. 

He recited the text he'd left on the scroll within the box like a mantra, removing his hat, glasses, and mask as he strode through the alley toward Oswald's car, plate once again swapped, in the falling dusk.

_I am a man who holds a high position,_  
_who shows two faces to all those he rules._  
_A fraud, criminal, and sometime politician;_  
_Gotham, my constituency of fools._

Safely behind the wheel, he put his glasses back on and tossed his hat and mask aside on the passenger seat. For a fleeting moment, he almost regretted not having Oswald and Caroline along for the ride.

 _Right now, you have bigger fish to fry,_ said his mirror-voice. _Get to The Sirens. ASAP._

 _You'd better hope they took your note of yesterday seriously_ , Kristen sighed. _Or else._

“I didn't ask for your input!” Edward snapped, tossing his gloves aside before running one hand nervously through his slicked-back hair and starting up the car. “This isn't your show to run.”

 _Oh, this show's yours, all right,_ Kristen cackled, piercingly vibrant. _We're your chorus!_

Edward made the drive according to the alley-heavy shortcut Caroline had used in November to get him to the club so he'd be on time for his date with Butch's downfall. The memory rattled him, made him fixate on the most vivid sensory impression that long-ago evening could afford.

( _Edward's eyes slid shut as one of Oswald's hands found its way between his shoulder blades. Memory of sharp impact, and then comfort—_ )

“I can't think about that right now,” Edward said between gritted teeth as he pulled into one of the VIP reserved spaces behind the club. “That is _not_ part of the rules. Focus.”

 _What rules?_ taunted his mirror-voice, green as thick as the stage fog. _We're winging it._

 _I'll tell you what,_ Kristen sighed, a sudden blood-red spike. _Maybe it's a good thing you choked me. I might've choked you first if I'd had to put up with this while I was alive._

He donned his hat and gloves before getting out of the car, shoving his mask in the glove compartment.

The club was insufferably mobbed, par for the course on a Saturday evening. Determined not to lose track of the prize that lay just out of sight, Edward cut his way through the crowd to where Barbara and Tabitha, bickering, occupied their usual spot at the bar. He was just in time to hear—

“How does him causing a scene at the theater help us?” Tabitha spat, unaware of Edward's approach.

Barbara had caught sight of him and was smirking like this was the punch line she'd been waiting for.

“It doesn't,” Edward said, snagging Tabitha by the shoulder, turning her to face him, “but it does help me more fully announce myself on the Gotham stage.” He touched the brim of his hat once she'd thrown him off, striking a pose mostly for Barbara's benefit. “If you'll forgive the pun.”

“Do you want to become famous?” Tabitha seethed at him. “Try dying. I can help you with that.”

“Okay, that's enough,” Barbara cut in, her arm around Tabitha. “What _actually_ is your plan?”

Patronizingly, Edward smirked at her. Bad enough she was playing obtuse, in light of his advance note.

“Kidnap Mayor James,” he reminded her, tapping his temples for emphasis. “The man ran this place for ten years. If anyone knows about this mysterious group, he does.”

“You could've said instead of _hinting_ ,” Barbara said. “I could've had him here, being tortured.”

“Okay, see,” Edward explained, disappointed to find himself giving a tutorial, “but first I had to tell the GCPD what I was going to do.” He made a two-handed gesture in hopes it would prove, if not illustrative, in the very least sarcastic. “How else am I supposed to properly embarrass them publicly? My crimes must live up to my name, and this is no exception.”

“And what if the mayor doesn't know anything about this group?” Barbara countered. “What then?”

“I have a Plan B to smoke them out, but first—if you recall, I need something from you,” Edward sighed, irritated that she'd force him to reiterate the plan he'd established with them in advance. “There's a biker bar on the corner of Spaulding and Eighth. It's full of brawlers and low-lifes. I need that bomb I detailed in my letter to detonate there. _Tonight_. I'll let you know when.”

“So tell us, genius,” said Tabitha, smirking, seamlessly picking up Barbara's mockery. “How do you plan to get Aubrey James now that you've told the GCPD you're going after him?”

“That's simple,” said Edward, self-assured, smirking right back. “They're going to bring him to me.”

“Then we'd better get your not-so-subtle derrière over to Gotham General,” said Barbara, laying an exaggerated smack of a kiss on Tabitha's cheek by way of goodbye, “in time to unroll the next phase of your brilliant plan while Tabby makes the biker joint go _boom_ and then comes back here to get everything upstairs ready. You don't mind if I ride over with you, right?” she asked coyly, reaching over the bar to fetch something she'd stashed in one of the compartments behind it. “This is the only uniform I could get near your size. Might be a kinda short.”

“I can't believe I agreed to any of this shit,” Tabitha said, but she made her way toward the back exit.

Barbara shook the plastic bag in excitement, steering Edward back toward the front door of the club.

“And I got a nurse's uniform for me!” she exclaimed. “I've _always_ wanted to wear one!”

“As long as you plant the recording in the right place, I don't care about your wardrobe,” Edward sighed, leading the way to where he'd parked, unlocking the Volkswagen with one click of the fob.

“I'll change in the back seat first,” Barbara suggested, shoving the police uniform off on Edward while she got into the car with the rest of the bag's contents in her arms. “You next, and then we get going.”

“I'll just change up front, thanks,” he muttered, taking his seat behind the wheel. The endeavor was a minor hardship, but it had nothing to do with cramped space. He had no desire to glance back over his shoulder at Barbara's progress, but he could tell whenever she paused to consider him.

“Those are impressive love-bites you've got there,” said Barbara, at length. “Ozzie's got teeth on him.”

Edward finished buttoning the top of the uniform, stiffly placing the hat on his head. “That's also sometimes true,” he retorted, starting up the engine, “and I take _very_ great pleasure in applying them.”

“ _Awww_. You finally got the hang of witty banter, didn't you?” Barbara asked, mock-sniffling as she patted Edward's shoulders. “Mommy's so proud!”

“Don't touch me,” Edward snapped, glaring at the road. “Not while I'm driving. Or, you know, ever.”

In the rear-view mirror, he caught sight of Barbara raising both hands above her head with a smirk.

“Guilty as charged, Officer Nygma,” she said, deceptively innocuous. “I promise I won't do it again.”

Inasmuch as she enjoyed playing ignorant for the sake of needling him, upon their covert arrival at Gotham General, Barbara proved exceptionally adept at following instructions. Not only did she manage to find the second-floor Communications Room and successfully plant the tape-recorder while Edward sussed out which partitioned bay hid a pastry-sickened Mayor James and his GCPD honor-guard consisting of Jim and Harvey, but made her way, flu-masked, to Edward's hiding place.

“It's gonna start playing over the P.A. in about thirty seconds,” she whispered. “Can't wait to hear what kind of clever, _filthy_ message you've recorded for your favorite cop and mine.”

“Can't promise much by way of filth,” replied Edward, with mild regret. “I kept my language G-rated.”

“Paging Detective James Gordon, paging Detective James Gordon,” crackled Edward's recorded voice.

Edward and Barbara doubled over in silent laughter as commotion broke loose in the emergency room. Even once a passing nurse had informed Jim of the announcement's origin-point, even once he and Harvey had rushed off to investigate, Edward's _pièce de résistance_ droned on.

“So, Jimbo, I know you must be wondering what I want from that ding-dong Aubrey James. Well, it turns out he has answers to a riddle, one that you set into motion when you sent Barbara down to dock 9C. The question being, who runs Gotham?” 

“Did you really have to name-drop me, Eddie?” Barbara said, giving Edward the side-eye. “Rude.”

Edward shifted his stance behind their segment of partition, listening as all hell broke loose. An influx of police and paramedics urgently ushering in Tabitha's bombing victims had the intended effect. 

Jim and Harvey returned to the fray, as predictably loud as ever, having discovered Edward's deception.

“Stay back here till you-know-when,” Edward told Barbara, slipping along the cinderblock wall until he could emerge into the chaos with his GCPD cap tilted low over his brow, approaching the partitioned-off section that held the mayor and his two bodyguards from the front.

“Hello, Aubrey,” said Edward, closing the curtain behind him as he entered the disinfectant-scented space.

Barbara emerged from their erstwhile hiding-place behind the partition backing Aubrey's hospital bed, tasing the bodyguards and the mayor with ruthless efficiency. Masked, she was oddly terrifying. 

“Sorry to interrupt your care, Mayor James,” she simpered, helping Edward haul him off the bed and onto the nearby trolley that held his clothes, “but you're being transferred to another facility.”

“Shut _up_ ,” hissed Edward, as they wheeled Aubrey swiftly against the tide of incoming injuries through the nearest exit. “Don't give anyone the opportunity to recognize your voice.”

“Says the guy who went before an audience of hundreds and did just that,” Barbara replied snidely.

Between the two of them, they got Aubrey into the trunk and tore out of the tow-zone in far less time than Edward had assumed possible. The fact that he'd retained a permanent city hall parking pass bearing a name _other_ than his own had undoubtedly helped matters.

While Barbara drove them back to The Sirens, Edward reclined in the back seat and fired off a text from his newly-acquired burner phone to Harvey's mobile number. The riddle was tricky to format.

_You can see me, but_  
_you cannot touch me._  
_The flick of a switch,_  
_I enter your home._  
_And with another,_  
_I leave you alone._  
_Where am I?_

“If you're about to send a text to your hubby,” said Barbara, warningly, “I'd strongly advise against it.”

“Idiot, _no_ ,” Edward snapped, making a huge show of hitting _SEND_. “It's to Bullock.”

“Jeez, my bad,” retorted Barbara, significantly exceeding the speed limit. “That's just peachy-keen!”

Back at The Sirens, they changed clothes in the kitchen while a lately-revived and blindfolded Aubrey James, with bound wrists and ankles, whimpered pathetically on the floor. 

Once they finished, Edward, once more masked and hatted, unbound him and made him re-dress at gunpoint while Barbara looked on with merciless appraisal and occasionally gave him a hand.

They marched him upstairs to where Tabitha waited with an excessive amount of rope and the AV set-up. Tabitha expertly bound Aubrey to the chair in front of the camera and sound equipment. She left immediately afterward, glaring in protest, to finish her remaining task.

“You're in way over your head on this one,” Aubrey said. “You don't want to mess with these people.”

“You see,” Edward tutted, checking the reel that contained quiz-show music, “everything that you say just makes me more intrigued. And determined. I _will_ be the one who unmasks them.”

“You're insane,” said Aubrey, shakily, stiffening in apprehension as Barbara hugged him from behind.

Edward’s fury flared with unexpected intensity, a longing for Oswald’s steadfast presence tangled in it.

“I’m _not_ ,” he insisted more petulantly than he would have liked, tapping the camera. “I have a—”

“Calm down, Riddler,” Barbara said, stroking Aubrey’s cheek. “He didn’t mean it. Remember me, Aubrey?”

“I know that voice,” muttered Aubrey, with unmistakable dread, increasingly articulate by the second.

“I'm so glad!” Barbara crowed, hanging on him like a doting relative. “I thought maybe it got muffled. We put that box on your head. _That_ was fun! We should do that again for old times' sake.”

“You don't get it, do you?” Aubrey pleaded, appealing once more to Edward. “These people, they're—they're like God. They see and hear everything. They'll know I talked.”

Barbara let go of Aubrey and clapped gleefully, making pleading eyes at Edward. “Then it's the box!”

“No, no, no. _Please_ ,” Aubrey begged. “Anything but that. They call themselves the Court.”

“ _Boring_ ,” Edward yawned, satisfied that his equipment was in order. “We already knew that.”

“And?” Barbara prompted, poking Aubrey in the shoulder until he whimpered and began to tremble.

“That's all I know,” Aubrey babbled. “I've never met these people. I just did what they asked me to, I swear.”

Clapping, Edward sidled up to Aubrey’s shoulder, joining Barbara in her efforts. “Very good!” he praised with insincerity. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor. You've been very helpful.”

“Helpful?” Barbara scoffed, finally moving away from Aubrey. “All he gave us was _the Court_.”

“He gave us tangible evidence of their existence,” Edward parried, low-voiced with disdain. “Not just your darling wife's fairytale rumors, you follow? Now they'll know I'm not bluffing.”

Barbara’s expression shifted, radiating anxiety as she ditched her mask. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm going to force the Court to reveal themselves,” Edward reassured her, patting Aubrey’s shoulder. “What is the one thing that every secret organization is afraid of?”

“Being exposed,” said Barbara, tossing the spent scrap of medical kit, arms folded across her chest.

Tabitha returned right on cue, an ominously effective-looking device cradled in both precise hands.

“Bingo,” Edward said to Aubrey, turning to face Tabitha. “Finally. Did you bring what I asked for?”

Tabitha handed Edward the collar while Barbara ran to her, her anxiety turning to outright agitation.

“It's time to get the Court's attention,” Edward told both of them, striding to Aubrey with the device.

“Baby,” Edward heard Barbara plead softly behind him as he fitted Aubrey with the explosive.

“Gordon dropped by downstairs,” Tabitha hissed. “He knows. We should never have gotten involved.”

Edward smirked at their misery, watching Tabitha flee the room and Barbara pursue her in desperation. Gordon _knew_ something, did he? Well, let him. He moved over to the camera and music reel, flipping them on, and stepped back into position next to a heavily sweating Aubrey.

Fleetingly, Edward wondered if having programmed the faux news-ticker programmed to say _BREAKING NEWS: RIDDLER HOLDS MAYOR HOSTAGE_ was a bit excessive. Surely not, he reasoned, remembering the egregious, error-littered typography that Jerome’s crew had favored.

“Good _evening_ , Gotham!” Edward gushed, giving Aubrey another companionable pat. “You were undoubtedly just sitting down to watch the nine o’clock news rehash, but I’m afraid there’s a _much_ more pressing issue to raise with all of you tonight.” He conducted the quiz-show music for a moment, indulging his belief that timing was everything. “I have a question. What is this mysterious _Court_ that controls the levers of power here in Gotham?” Behind Aubrey’s back, he mimed the pulling of levers. “Would they let our dear mayor's head be blown to bits in order to keep their anonymity?” he laughed, pleased with the music’s comical swell.

As if to speak, Aubrey made a strangled noise. Whatever his intention, he bit it off at the last second.

“I know what you're thinking, Aubrey,” Edward sighed dramatically for the benefit of their citywide audience. “That the police are going to somehow find you, rescue you. I gave the GCPD every chance to save you.” He approached the camera and glowered into it. “But they're no match for me!”

“We're both dead men,” Aubrey said, resigned instead of desperate. “You don't get it, do you? The Court isn't gonna bargain with you,” he added just as his cell phone began to ring in his pocket.

“You underestimate me, Mr. James,” Edward said, returning to him, answering the phone. “Hello.”

“Nygma,” said Jim Gordon’s voice, harsh and commanding, distinctive on the far end of the line.

 _I hate to be the one to say it this time_ , whispered Kristen, ominously, _but you fucked up_.

“Jim, I'm _so_ sorry,” said Edward, blithely, ignoring her. “We can't be clogging up the lines. I'm actually expecting an important call.”

 _Oswald’s been trying your phone_ , said his mirror-voice, ghastly, sober for once. _But you turned it off and left it in the car._

“You want to know who runs Gotham?” asked Jim, in the earnest tone he only used when he knew he was on his last-ditch gambit. “I have the answer. Come by the GCPD. I'll tell it to you.”

“ _Hmmm_ ,” Edward hummed, rolling his eyes at the camera. “Yeah, I think I'll pass on that.”

“Then you'll never know the truth,” said Jim, evenly. “You think I told Barbara everything I know?”

“You always were clever, Jim,” said Edward, recognizing, too, thanks to years of working with the man, that Jim likely wasn’t bluffing after all. “I respect that. Empty out the GCPD. I want it to be just you and me. Alone.” He stepped back in front of the camera, indicating Aubrey. “Well, and this idiot with the bomb around his neck.”

He hung up and punched the camera off its tripod, wrecking the rest of the equipment in short order. 

“You have no idea what a reckless thing you’ve just done,” Aubrey entreated as Edward flicked out his knife and cut him loose from the chair. “If we weren’t dead before, we’re dead _now_!”

“Less talking, more walking,” said Edward, tugging on the cord still binding his wrists. “Move!”

Getting Aubrey back downstairs, outside, and into the car was less of a fuss than it had been initially.

Edward removed both his burner phone and his real phone from the glove compartment, checking each one before shoving them in his pockets. Four texts and seven voicemails from Oswald. _Seven_. 

Seized by a pang of guilt, he steeled himself and started up the vehicle. Jim Gordon was waiting.

Twelve minutes later, he parked in the familiar side-alley. He leaned to face Aubrey in the driver’s seat beside him and cut both the blindfold and the cord that bound his hands. He removed the collar’s remote control from his pocket, showing it to Aubrey.

“You’ll go inside ahead of me,” Edward explained. “I’ll be following at a short distance. If you try to flee, I’ll hit this button—” he mimed the action of pressing it “—and your political career is over.”

“Yours panned out pretty spectacularly in the end, huh,” Aubrey said. “Yours and Cobblepot’s both.”

“Get out of the car,” Edward commanded, leaning across him to shove the door open. “Go!”

Once he’d seen Aubrey safely through the front doors of the precinct, Edward fled around to the side. He’d come at Jim sideways, preferring a slight element of surprise. As usual, it was good to be back.

“Ed?” Jim asked loudly as Edward crept steadily through the corridor. “It's just the two of us in here.”

Shifting the detonator to his left hand, Edward ceremoniously drew his pistol as he entered the station.

“Just wanted to make sure I wasn't walking into a trap,” he confessed, spotting Aubrey, not far from where Jim stood, seated at one of the detectives’ desks. When Aubrey attempted to flee, Edward waggled the detonator at him and said, “ _Nah_ ah ah. Sit down, Aubrey.” He trained his pistol on his erstwhile co-worker, hardening his expression. “You said you have the answer I was looking for, Jim. It would be incredibly disappointing if this was all a ruse. More so for Mayor James.”

“Just tell him what he wants,” Aubrey implored Jim, begging more desperately than he had at the club.

Jim regarded Aubrey with disdain, laughing as he shifted his focus to Edward. “He talks too much. You should probably go ahead and blow him up.”

“I'll have your badge, Gordon!” Aubrey roared, powerless to do much more than turn purple where he sat.

“I'm not bluffing, Jim,” Edward insisted, tapping the detonator even as he fingered the pistol’s trigger.

“Neither am I,” Jim said, his easy, conspiratorial manner beginning to set Edward ill at ease. “What's the blast radius on that thing? Am I good here, or should I duck behind a desk?”

The apparition of Kristen that emerged from Records was so vivid Edward almost dropped the gun.

“I hate to break it to you, sweetie,” she said wistfully, “but you’re the one who’s being played here.”

Edward adamantly ignored her, waving the pistol in agitation. “I want the _answer_ , Jim! I kill him, I still walk out of here with you as my hostage.”

“Oswald won’t reach you in time,” said his full-fledged reflection—so unfamiliar now, so similar to the way he’d once looked and dressed—striding out of the shadows to join Kristen. “It’s over, Eddie.”

Longing for peace and quiet, Edward made an executive decision. He hit the button on the detonator.

Three of his four audience members, apparitions included, blinked in surprise when nothing happened.

“Nobody listens to the archivist,” said Kristen, with genuine regret, turning to go. “What can you do?”

Edward’s mirror-self said nothing, following Kristen out of the room with a contemptuous expression.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Edward said, too distressed to think, tapping the detonator against his thigh. He hit the button repeatedly, looking to Jim in supplication—for an answer, for _anything_ —

“There's a radio frequency jamming the signal between the detonator and the bomb,” Jim explained.

Edward raised his gun, experiencing a spike of abject fury. “ _How_?” he demanded, uncontrollably shaking.

“Tabitha,” Jim continued, looking almost sorry for him. “She holds quite the grudge against you and Oswald for what you did to her and Butch. She called me, told me how to disarm the bomb.”

“I'll admit I didn't see this coming,” said Edward, unsteadily, “but that doesn't change anything.” He advanced on Jim, skirting the edge of his meltdown. “I want to know who the Court is!” As an afterthought, he swung his aim over to the mayor. “Or Aubrey dies,” he clarified, his anxiety rising as Jim slipped a hand in his pocket for—a gun, _his_ gun, surely a gun. “ _Don’t_!”

“You want to know who runs Gotham?” said Jim, pulling out his car keys. “Then let Mayor James go. Take a ride with me. But if you pull that trigger, you'll never get the answer you're looking for.”

Edward graced him with a sarcastic smile, ticking his gun at Jim just like Jerome had once done to Oswald.

“You fool me once, Jim?” he asked. “Shame on you. You fool me _twice_?” He shifted his aim from Aubrey to Jim. “That's just not going to happen!”

“Then the riddle will go unsolved,” Jim said with something like sadness, idly letting his keys dangle.

Edward glanced back and forth between Jim and Aubrey, his resolve unraveling. He swallowed.

“Fine!” he relented grudgingly, pointing the pistol at the ceiling as Mayor James fled the building.

“Fine,” Jim echoed, jingling the keys to indicate that Edward had made the right choice. “Let's go.”

Throughout the entirety of the ride, neither one of them said a word. The number of times Edward had ridden to a crime scene in Jim’s car didn’t even bear considering. The warped familiarity of it rankled.

He was surprised when Jim parked on a stretch of deserted road not far from the warehouse where Oswald had once had Zsasz and Vee detain Tabitha and Butch. He regretted the darkness, his confinement—wishing instead to be in the open, breathing salt-stung air with Oswald at his side.

Jim killed the engine, sparing Edward a sidelong glance as he made the regrettable decision to speak.

“You remember the night you came over to Lee's for dinner?” he ventured. “It was like a lifetime ago.” 

“Leslie made fondue,” said Edward, subdued, staring straight ahead at the harbor. “The wine was a Bordeaux. Well-aged. Smooth tannins—”

 _I wore a black dress with pink trim_ , Kristen whispered hollowly. _And here we are again, talking about wine and your romantic misadventures._

 _I was wrong about this one back in the day_ , drawled his mirror-voice, discontent. _She’s such a drag_.

Edward pressed his gloved fingers to his temples, trembling with the effort of suppressing them.

“I don’t _want_ to think about that!” he shouted, kicking the foot-well mat for emphasis.

“Then what do you want to think about, Ed?” asked Jim, startled. “The answer you're about to get?”

Edward swallowed and closed his eyes, recovering his grasp on the pistol, pointing it squarely at Jim.

“Oswald,” he said matter-of-factly, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Our wedding at city hall. [You were my best man](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10914795). Unwilling, of course, just like you are now, but—”

“That time at Lee's—just like that time at city hall, I tried like hell to get out of it,” Jim admitted. “But Lee insisted. _Oswald_ insisted. The truth is, Ed? I considered you a friend.”

Edward gasped, latching onto the riddle as it came to him unbidden. If nothing else, it was fitting.

“I can sneak up on you, or be right in front of you without you even knowing, but when I reveal myself, you will never be the same. What am I?”

Jim stared at him in absolute bafflement, as if he couldn’t make heads or tails of it. “I don't care, I—”

“Betrayal,” Edward cut in, stunned by the bloom of bitterness ( _nightshade, bittersweet; Solanum dulcamara_ ) in his chest. “That's how every friendship ends. So…what good are friends, anyway? There's only one friend who ever mattered to me, and I fell for him. Fell in _love_ with him. I married him, and you sneered at it. You still do. That's what it feels like. Maybe that's why you lost her. _Bang bang_ , Jimbo. You'd better come to terms with it. And as much as I'm enjoying this oh-so-intimate chat, I'm afraid I can't be the one to help you work through your issues.”

An unidentified car coming from the opposite direction pulled up in front of them, almost nose to nose.

The elegantly-dressed woman and the masked figure in black who emerged from it were mesmerizing.

“Who are they?” asked Edward, in awe. He had no idea what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

“The answer to your question,” replied Jim, offering him a brief smile. Beneath it, there was hope.

Edward smiled back at him, cautiously elated. He got out of the car and approached the woman, who looked more familiar the closer he got.

Jim followed at a safe distance, as if hesitant.

“Hello, Mr. Nygma,” said Kathryn. “We've both come a long way since the Founders' Dinner, haven't we? I see that you've traded your eyeshadow for a mask. How very appropriate. Does your dearest, most devoted former mayor of a husband know what you're up to tonight?”

Edward closed his eyes shut against the blinding pain of it. _Heliotropum arborescens_. To turn.

“No,” he said, opening his eyes in defiance. “And you were right under my nose. You were _this_ close, and I didn't—” He struggled for words, grasping at them. “How do I know you're real?”

“Isn't that the point of a good mystery?” challenged Kathryn, knowingly, the underlying warmth of her tone an invitation. “You're never quite sure what to believe until the end.”

“Gordon could've put you up to this,” said Edward, putting his guard back up even as his phone, his real one, began to vibrate in his pocket. “He’s already pulled one over on me tonight.”

“I assure you, Detective Gordon had to be convinced to bring you here,” Kathryn replied, the lilt of her voice leading Edward on. “Let me put it like this: that question Professor Strange had you ask Bruce Wayne and Lucius Fox last year at Indian Hill, the one that has tortured you, the one you'll never be able to answer? That answer is with me.”

Edward’s elation swelled, fierce as the sun, but part of him knew, as the masked bodyguard stepped closer, that this was the end. Foolishly, he’d chosen; he’d go to his grave with an answer, but without so much as Oswald’s fiercest words and sweetest kiss in parting.

 _Worried sick_ , his mirror-voice said as his phone buzzed on, purple blossoms gone to poisoned seed.

“What now?” he asked Kathryn, numbly, eyeing the masked bodyguard with prescient apprehension.

“Get in,” she reassured him as the bodyguard opened the car's rear door, “and all your questions will be answered. You won't be needing the gun.”

Reluctantly, Edward handed it over to the masked figure as he got into the back of the ostentatious vehicle.

Instead of closing the door, the bodyguard leaned in, looming over him, and plunged a syringe into his neck.

Edward's last thought was how many times he’d done that very thing to Oswald, drugging him into silence.

 _You're the problem_ , gloated Kristen, as bittersweet darkness washed over him. _Tick-tock._


	28. Shadowed Heart

Oswald looked up from cracking his hard-boiled egg just in time to see Ivy enter the room. She was as chipper as she’d been the night before when he, Caroline, Gabriel, Vee, and Zsasz had returned from their first sweep of the city for any sign of Edward. 

They’d come up empty-handed. That had hit Oswald worse than any hangover, as had the knowledge, gleaned from news reports, that Detective Gordon had been the last person to have any contact with Edward before he had supposedly escaped police custody.

“Good morning,” he said, side-eyeing her from her argyle-stockinged feet to [the previous evening](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11195640)’s improvised outfit to her upswept hair as she approached Edward’s seat. “Olga tells me she hand-washed your things, delicate as they are, and hung them. Surely they’re dry by now?”

Ivy shrugged cheerfully, doing a turn for him in Edward’s flashiest green suit-trousers, faded black t-shirt, and unbuttoned dress-shirt cuffed up to the elbows. She tugged on the metallic, gold-green-silver scale patterned tie, which she’d knotted so that it swung loose around her neck.

“Yeah, but if we’re gonna see lots of action today, don’t you think I should wear something I can run around in?” she asked, pulling out Edward’s chair, plonking herself down. She studied the berry-laden bowl of oatmeal in front of her, picking up her hard-boiled egg. Rather than using a spoon as Oswald had done, she cracked it on the edge of the table. She tossed it down on her plate a second later, wagging a finger excitedly at Oswald, as if she’d forgotten something. “Pengy, just look at this,” she said, rucking up the t-shirt far enough to show off the waistband of Edward’s vintage-typography patterned boxers. “He actually _wears_ these?”

“Something tells me he won’t be wearing them anymore,” Oswald sighed, flicking shards of eggshell off his fingertips in distaste. “You might as well keep whatever you have on. He'll be too particular to take it back from you.”

“Yeah, but you said he _really_ likes this suit,” she said, pointing at the trousers as she resumed cracking the egg against her plate one-handed. “I totally understand, because I want a dress this shiny. What if I ruin these?”

“If you think I can’t have them remade to his exact specifications, then you’re more obtuse than you look,” Oswald told her tartly, biting away half of his egg. In spite of the mess she'd made adapting Edward's clothes, they did become her.

“I slept really well last night,” offered Ivy, with her mouth full, manners leaving as much to be desired as ever. “Thanks for letting me sleep in his room with all that cool crap! I didn’t take anything, I promise—but I, like, looked through it and stuff? He’s got a _seriously_ fun collection of artwork. You should hang some of it down here. Might lighten the place up a bit, you know?”

“If you’d seen his laboratory, you’d know some of it’s already on display,” said Oswald, stiffly.

“Hey, sorry,” Ivy sighed, abandoning the egg in favor of her oatmeal. “I know you’re worried about him. We’re gonna find whoever took him, and we’re gonna make them pay. And once we get him back here and everything’s back to normal, I’m gonna make him show it to me.”

“He’ll be interested in seeing your greenhouse,” Oswald told her, finding that he didn’t have much stomach for something as acidic as orange juice. As Olga swept quietly back into the room, he waved for her to take it away. “He’ll want to learn all of your tricks.”

Ivy shrugged, eyes round with delight as Olga poured her some coffee with cream and sugar. She gulped down nearly all of it in one sustained go, messily wiping her mouth on Oswald’s napkin. Was she equally as caffeine-starved as she was nutrition-starved?

“I’m not opposed to sharing as long as he trades me something worthwhile,” she said. “So, _Oswald_ ,” she said, her demeanor waxing serious in the same way a child’s might, “what’s the plan? Where do we start looking for these bozos, anyway?”

“I’m afraid that allocating all of my manpower to this might destabilize the city,” Oswald confessed, attempting a swallow of coffee. “I can’t afford to leave Ed in danger and let this go unpunished, but I can’t afford to lose control, either. The job needs to be quick.”

Ivy stared off into space for a few seconds, pensively tapping her chin with the tip of her spoon.

“What if I told you,” she said, “that I know somebody who knows what's left of an _army_ of freaks?”

“What kind of freaks?” Oswald asked, interest piqued. “And how many are we talking, exactly?”

“There used to be a couple dozen,” Ivy went on, "but the majority had to leave Gotham. They’re the surviving ones who busted out of Indian Hill and ran with Fish Mooney for a while. My friend Cat— _Selina_ —was with them.”

Oswald felt his blood run cold at the mention of both Fish and Indian Hill. He’d suspected as much, but in a city like Gotham, resources often materialized from unexpected quarters. He doubted his prospects of obtaining any from this one.

“How many are left?” he asked. “Does our mutual friend Miss Kyle know where to find them?”

“Goddamn,” Ivy said. “She really gets around. Yeah, sure. I know where two of them live, but one’s too far away to be useful on short notice. For my money, we should try to get Selina and Bridgit. That bald dude, Zsasz, I’ve heard about him. He’s got, like, a crew—right?”

“Tell me about this Bridgit,” Oswald replied, backing up a step. “Why should we find her?”

“Dude, she’s _literally_ fireproof,” Ivy said with glee. “And she’s got a flame-thrower!”

Oswald thought back to the sequence of long-ago news reports involving police fatalities at the hands of a rogue firebug. _Pike_ , his subconscious supplied helpfully. _Yes, her vendetta against the GCPD would more than suffice._

Gabriel came into the room, five minutes ahead of schedule, with Caroline, Vee, and Zsasz on his heels. They’d spent an uneasy night on alert between the sitting room, the driveway, and the property's periphery. Most of them looked worse for wear.

“No disturbances while you an’ Miss Pepper were sleepin’, boss,” he said. “Orders for today?”

“Caroline, have a seat,” Oswald told the driver, who looked hollow-eyed and anxious. “Help me and Ivy finish this absolutely _delicious_ spread. You’ll need your strength, because you’ll be driving us on a couple of errands this morning. No more line-of-fire for the time being.”

“Whatever, Mr. C,” she said, exchanging reluctant glances with Vee as she sat down next to Ivy.

Oswald ignored her weary impertinence and moved on to Zsasz, who looked as ready as ever.

“You, Victor,” he said, “will rustle up as much of your family as you can and continue the work we started last night. I don’t care if you have to terrorize our allies as fiercely as our enemies. You will either find Ed, or you will find information that _leads_ us to Ed. Are we clear?”

“As a bell, chief,” he said with solemn relish, cracking his gloved knuckles. “I got some ideas.”

“I can always count on you to be creative,” Oswald agreed, catching Ivy’s eye as he gestured toward Gabriel and Vee. “You two, now. You two have a _special_ assignment, and Miss Pepper here is going to tell you exactly where you should start looking for the target.”

“That means Selina, right?” Ivy whispered loudly, slightly uncertain, around a mouthful of egg.

“Of _course_ it means Miss Kyle,” sighed Oswald. “Do you know her current residence?”

“Gimme a piece of paper and something to write with,” Ivy asked Gabriel, seeming to enjoy the haste with which he fumbled an old receipt and a mini-pen out of his coat. “I’m gonna give you a list of places she usually hangs with some of our old crew. I’m gonna give you her squat, too.”

While she was busy writing everything down, Oswald fixed Caroline and Vee with stern looks.

“I’m not oblivious to the pain of separation under dangerous circumstances,” he said soberly, the necessary statement hitting altogether too close to home. “But I do pay you, and _exorbitantly_ , so I expect my money’s worth. Understand?”

“I do,” said Vee, gruffly, stepping up behind Caroline’s chair. She nudged Caroline’s shoulder.

“Yes, Mr. C,” Caroline agreed, straightening her posture as she reached for some toast. “I do.”

“Good,” Oswald said, stealing Ivy’s untouched napkin in retaliation, wiping his mouth as Ivy mouthed a silent _hey_ and glowered at him. “The rest of you, move out. The three of us won’t be far behind. Caroline, _please_. Your egg?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, glaring hard at Ivy, who had begun to mime cracking motions at her.

The other three, as if they’d pre-planned their assault on the table, stole toast and bacon in varying combinations on their way out. Vee took toast and Oswald’s mostly-untouched coffee. Oswald wondered what she intended to do with the mug.

“You know, you’re a pretty cool boss,” Ivy remarked, grinning at Oswald as she ate a strawberry.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Oswald muttered, rising, making his way into the kitchen without his cane.

Olga glanced up from scrubbing the previous evening’s dishes, sponge-wand in hand. There were an assortment of biscuits, peanut butter, and other condiments on the counter—remnants from Ivy’s unexpected raid on the cupboards the night before when she’d refused Olga’s soup.

“As much as I’d love to include you,” Oswald sighed, “I need you here to hold down the fort.”

Olga shrugged, continuing with her task. “Holding down fort is what I am for. Is no trouble.”

“I know you’re as worried about him as I am,” said Oswald, softly, bracing himself with one trembling hand on the center island. Memories of [New Year’s Day](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10969905) flooded back to him, suffused with the crooning of the record player in the next room.

“If you do not find him,” said Olga, steadily, not meeting Oswald’s gaze as she continued to scrub at the mauve-patterned plate, “I hold you accountable.” She set it aside in the rack slightly too hard. “You are too lenient.”

“I will find him, Olga,” Oswald insisted, letting his rage suppress the terrible urge to cry. “I will burn this city to the _ground_ if that’s what it takes, raze it brick by brick to bring him home. You have my word.”

“Do not burn down this house,” she warned, regarding him with a half-smile. “I am fond of it.”

Oswald laughed in spite of himself, tears filling his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied.

After breakfast, with Ivy giving comprehensive directions through the limousine’s divider, Caroline drove them to a foundry on the edge of the Docklands. It was just as well that she seemed relieved with instructions to remain outside. Nicotine withdrawal and recalcitrance at her separation from Vee were not conducive to either intimidation _or_ persuasion.

“The thing you’ve gotta remember,” Ivy told him as they strode through the smoke-bitten air to the entrance, “is that Bridgit’s got a vigilante streak a mile wide. She also has the biggest problem with authority I've seen. Appeal to those, and she’s yours.”

Oswald still found the sight of Ivy in masculine clothing, enhanced now by the fact that a pair of Edward’s battered sneakers were no more than a half-size too big on her, mildly jarring. She was imposing in either guise, perhaps even more so with her hair down and in heels.

“ _You_ look intimidating,” he reassured her. “Did I play up my menacing side enough?”

“Definitely,” Ivy said, grinning as she picked at the slight up-turn of his jacket collar, running her swift fingers almost enviously over the broad-grained silk. “You look goth as _fuck_ ,” she said, lowering her voice as if anxious another adult might hear.

“Your language is no concern of mine,” Oswald said, hauling the door open for her. “After you.”

They found themselves pressed back against the wall by a wave of heat-saturated darkness, by the clamor of iron striking scorched iron.

Disoriented, Oswald tried to get his bearings amidst the bustle of filthy, sweat-rimed workers while Ivy scanned the glowing interior.

“Over there,” she said, pointing to one of the workstations several yards off to their right. “The short one that looks like she’s wearing some kind of full-body safety suit? Gives off a vibe like she might slit your throat? That’s her.”

“You’ve met her before?” Oswald said, beckoning Ivy ahead. “Secure me an introduction.”

“Uh, yeah,” she said, shrugging, grabbing Oswald’s hand and leading him forward. “When we were _really_ young kids. She and Selina were always closer. I was kinda jealous. That's when I figured out plants are better than people.”

“Wonderful,” Oswald muttered. “Toss us right back in the middle of a pre-teen lovers’ spat.”

“I never could tell if that’s what was up,” said Ivy, shrugging. She brought them around to Bridgit’s right side as Bridgit painstakingly poured something molten into a mold. “Hey, Pike?”

Bridgit glanced at them with dark, defensive eyes, her hands steady on the scalding beaker.

“Do I know you?” she asked, giving Ivy a kinder visual appraisal than she gave Oswald.

“You might’ve,” replied Ivy. “Kinda. A long time ago, but that’s irrelevant. This is Oswald Cobblepot, and he’s my boss. Most people just call him Penguin. He’s got an offer for you.”

“Ex-Mayor Cobblepot?” asked Bridgit, scornfully. “Or should I say Crumblepot? Nice work.”

“I see you still hold me responsible for all of that awful monster rhetoric I spewed during my campaign,” Oswald said, swallowing his pride, realizing he deserved every word of it. His actions concerning the Indian Hill escapees had been regrettable.

“You ran most people like me out of Gotham,” replied Bridgit, accusingly, her eyes flashing at Oswald. “I only managed to stay at the fringes because my ability’s useful. That, and people are scared shitless.”

“We both know I only said those things because that’s what the voters wanted to hear,” said Oswald, in what he hoped was a sufficiently earnest and placating tone. "I sincerely regret my actions."

Bridgit finished pouring the lava-like substance and set aside the beaker. She picked up a pair of tongs that had been sitting in the fire, advancing on Oswald, causing him to stumble back.

“And why would you do that?” she sneered, bringing the tongs dangerously close to Oswald’s and Ivy’s necks in turn. “Am I supposed to believe public disgrace has taught you a lesson?”

Oswald folded his hands in front of him, considering the ash-strewn floor, and then looked at her.

“My enemies took my husband from me, and there's anxiety that this secret organization might make a move on the city in retaliation for exposure,” he said, spreading his arms wide, indicating he had nothing to hide. “If you help me rescue Edward and take them down, I will not only provide you with protection, but also provide you with employment. You'll regularly get to exercise your talents on the gruesome destruction of...deserving parties like these,” he added, gesturing at the handful of shouting foremen.

“Yeah,” said Bridgit, waiting on the stuff in the furnace while it heated further. “I think I'll pass.”

“You _cannot_ be serious,” Oswald said. “I've seen mass graves more inviting than this place.”

“Strange messed me up pretty good,” she said bluntly, appealing to Ivy with a glance. “He convinced me I was some sort of goddess, and it took me a long time to get over it. Now, this place might be bad? But Gotham is _worse_.”

“Hey, freak!” yelled the nearest passing foreman. “You're on company time. Get back to work.”

“You don't have to take that,” said Ivy, wickedly suggestive. “You should totally kick his ass.”

“Yeah, but he’s my boss,” replied Bridgit, with a hint of hesitation, as she fetched the molten substance back out of the furnace without so much as breaking a sweat. That she could work bare-handed was nothing short of remarkable.

Oswald felt his leg begin to ache and cursed his decision to leave his cane behind with Caroline.

“Bridgit, there is _nothing_ wrong with being a freak,” Ivy insisted. “I'm a freak. So is Penguin,” she added, at which Oswald nodded in resigned agreement. “You belong with us.”

“We _have_ met before, haven't we?” Bridgit asked, squinting in wonder at Ivy’s face.

“I'm Ivy Pepper. Selina's friend?” she asked, breaking into a grin. “Oh, I know. I ran into one of Strange's puppies. Kind of had a growth spurt. Though, to be honest, I'm not complaining.”

“Ivy,” Bridgit murmured, studying Oswald with undisguised mistrust. “And you're part of this?”

“Yeah,” Ivy said, smiling at him. “It's like we're a family. You don't have to be alone anymore.”

“I could kill your boss just to sweeten the deal,” Oswald offered, trying for amicable whimsy.

When Bridgit grinned at him, he was reminded of nothing so much as the first moments in which Edward’s guarded exterior had given way to genuine, startling depths of emotion. His absence was vacuous, _untenable_.

“Nah,” she said, carrying her lethal burden over to where the foreman stood with his back turned. “Hey, you!” she said, tapping him on the shoulder before throwing it in his eyes. “I quit.”

While the man screamed in agony, Bridgit removed her apron, went over to the far corner of the workspace, and fetched a complicated piece of machinery. She trapped it to her back, grinning as her pace quickened.

“What are we waiting for?” Bridgit asked, beckoning to them, already dashing toward the exit.

“That really went well!” Ivy exclaimed, taking Oswald’s arm as they rushed to follow her out.

“Miss Pike, this is Ms. Fowler,” said Oswald, breathlessly, as they all piled into the limousine.

“Nice to meet you,” Bridgit told Caroline, who was peering through the divider in abject dismay.

“Drive,” Ivy said urgently, tapping on the window. “We’re running from angry folks in there!”

“I don’t even wanna know,” muttered Caroline, but immediately did as she was told.

While they tore up the highway going at least fifteen miles over the speed limit, Oswald left the girls to their subdued chatter and texted Gabriel.

The response several seconds later confirmed what Oswald had feared. So far, they’d had no luck locating Selina.

“I think that Gabe and Ms. Aragon might be in need of your assistance,” he admitted to Ivy.

“I bet,” she agreed, looking over the formidable handheld portion of what Oswald could only assume was Bridgit’s flame-thrower. “Selina’s tough to track when she doesn’t wanna be found. My guess is that she's convinced everyone not to talk.”

Oswald replied to Gabriel’s text, requesting his and Vee’s precise whereabouts, glancing up.

“Then I’m going to take you to them,” he said impatiently, “so that you can help out.”

“Whatever you need, Pengs,” said Ivy, handing the piece of kit back to Bridgit. “Where?”

Oswald closed his eyes for a long moment, waiting until the urge to shout at her had passed. Her endless riffing on his alias was growing on him.

“Gabe is about to text me the address,” he said, loudly enough for Caroline to hear. “I will then have Ms. Fowler drop you off at that location before taking me and Miss Pike,” he added, gesturing grandly at Bridgit, “off to our next rendezvous.”

“Where are _we_ going?” Bridgit asked, eyebrows raised. “Who do I get to intimidate?”

“You catch on fast,” replied Oswald, deeply satisfied. “How does Jim Gordon sound?”

“Didn’t get to burn that self-righteous bastard back in the day,” said Bridgit. “He sounds _great_.”

“I saw the news reports,” said Oswald, solemnly sympathetic. “I thought you might approve.”

Once they'd left Ivy with a thoroughly disgruntled Gabriel and Vee outside the midtown shooting gallery they'd been trawling for information, Oswald and Bridgit spent the remainder of their ride to Jim Gordon's tenement exchanging awkward, silent glances.

“Sorry to throw you in off the deep end,” Oswald said as Caroline brought the limousine to a stop in the alley, “but I figured you'd be in the mood for...more of what you started back there. I understand your discontent, and I appreciate your enthusiastic approach.”

“I'm always in the mood for frying people who deserve it,” said Bridgit, candidly. “No sweat.”

“You were awfully quick to let Ivy convince you to trust me,” he said, pushing the door open, letting her exit the vehicle ahead of him. “Why is that, I wonder? Based on my history, in _your_ shoes, I'd hesitate.”

“I figure that maybe you really are trying your best to make amends,” said Bridgit, offering Oswald a hand as he stepped out with his cane. “And if you're not? That's an easy enough problem to solve, believe me. I'll just kill you.”

“That is...extremely fair,” Oswald conceded, pointing toward the staircase that would take them up to the landing where Jim's door was already in view. “When we get there, I want you off to the right. I'll be on the next set of steps, off to the left. I want him to have to look up at me.”

“You've got a twisted mind,” Bridgit said, following Oswald with light footfalls. “I kinda dig it.”

“You, my dear Miss Pike,” said Oswald, making an extravagant show of ringing Jim's doorbell before turning and taking his place, “have only seen the _least_ of it. And I look forward to giving you a full introduction.”

“Is he into it?” Bridgit asked as Oswald strained to listen for sounds of life beyond Jim's windows, which were far grimier than Oswald would have expected. “Your, uh, Edward. Former chief of staff. Kidnapped husband? That guy.”

“I would rather let Ed speak for himself,” Oswald sighed, tilting his head at what sounded like Jim's approach. “But I can tell you that if I weren't so into _him_ , I wouldn't be doing this. And that is perhaps the biggest understatement I've ever made.”

“Oh, it's obvious you're head-over-heels,” Bridgit said. “Obvious from day one, even on TV.”

“ _Shhh_ ,” hissed Oswald, gesturing as the doorknob rattled. “Never mind. This is it.”

Jim Gordon emerged into the overcast sunlight, closing the door behind him. He caught sight of Bridgit first, his expression shifting from one of perplexity to one of annoyance as he turned to set suspicious, tired-seeming eyes on Oswald.

That Oswald had once found this hypocrite attractive was utterly inconceivable to him now.

“Oswald,” said Jim, cautiously. He attempted a smile, as if to ask to what he owed the visit.

“Hello, Jim,” said Oswald, descending the stairs one at a time, stopping just a few feet away.

“I guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you,” Jim sighed. “Especially not after...last night.”

“Yes,” Oswald agreed. “I'm quite the persistent customer when it comes to matters of urgency.”

Behind Jim, Bridgit fired up her flame-thrower. He turned and glanced at her, instantly wary.

“I guess this isn't a social call,” Jim said, turning slowly back to Oswald. “What do you want?”

“I've decided that it's time you paid up for all the favors I've done you without demanding reciprocation,” said Oswald. “I'm looking for my husband. You remember him, right? Edward Nygma, six feet tall, glasses? It turns out _you_ are the last one who saw him.”

“Yeah, before he escaped police custody,” Jim agreed reasonably, as if the answer would suffice.

“Escaped? From the great Detective Gordon?” asked Oswald, incredulously. “I think not,” he continued, leading with his cane as he paced forward and placed himself between Bridgit and Jim. “Ed went on television demanding information about a group that runs Gotham. A group called the Court, and you called him and said you had that information.”

“A ruse,” said Jim, too quickly for comfort, avoiding eye contact. “To get him to the GCPD.”

“Perhaps,” sighed Oswald, growing impatient. “But then you arrest him, and— _voilà_! He disappears. Sorry—” he framed his face with a one-handed air quote “— _escapes custody_.” Approaching Jim until they stood uncomfortably close produced the intended effect. “Can you see how I might think you may have handed Ed off to this all-powerful group for some reason? Furthermore, do you even understand the _consequences_? I spent nearly all of last night a step behind you and Bullock, and I am very, _very_ cross at the fact that you didn't have the good sense to bring Ed home the moment you got your hands on him. I thought we had an arrangement, Jim, recent social _faux pas_ on your part notwithstanding!”

“As painful as this must be for you, I've got a piece of advice,” Jim replied, sneering directly in Oswald's face. “For your own sake, Oswald, _drop it_.”

“I knew it!” Oswald gloated over his shoulder to Bridgit, even as Jim angrily seized him by the arms and shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Wrong answer!” he spat, turning his face back to Jim. “Everything I do from this point forward is for _Ed_ 's sake. And surely you must realize that makes me, oh, I don’t know, at least a million times more dangerous than usual. And I’m _deadly_.”

“You don't know anything,” Jim gritted out, shaking him roughly. “Trust me, let it go.”

Oswald struck Jim in the shins with his cane as hard as he could in such constricted quarters.

“I may not know anything, but _you_ do,” he spat as Jim hissed in pain and let go of him. “I can see it in your eyes. You never were a very good liar. That didn't serve you very well with the women in your life, did it? _Tsk_.” He backpedaled until he was parallel with Bridgit, giving her a nod, smirking as she fired up the flame-thrower again. “Okay, here's how it's going to be. Either you tell me what you know about the Court and where they took Ed, or my esteemed associate, Miss Pike, does what she does best. I'm all _about_ giving people second chances.”

“Been waiting a long time for this,” said Bridgit, with undisguised relish. “Haven't _you_?”

“I take it there's no way I can talk you out of doing this?” Jim asked her, raising his hands slowly in the air. “Even though I tried to help you once?”

“Nope,” Bridgit said. “As far as I'm concerned, you're trash like the rest of those losers I torched.”

“Thought as much,” Jim sighed in defeat. “Oswald, what I'm about to tell you is information surrendered not only in exchange for my life, but also in recognition that I've treated you and Ed less kindly than I should have. Ed raked me across the coals for it last night, and I deserved that.” 

“Then it won't be necessary for us to burn you to a crisp,” replied Oswald, sarcastically. “Go on.”

“The Court of Owls has existed for as long as Gotham has been on the map,” Jim said. “Generation after generation, it's made up of members from Gotham's founding families. I wouldn't be surprised if most of the people you met at the Founders' Dinner back in November were in some way connected,” he said, his tone rife with implication. “To make a long story short, my uncle Frank committed suicide so that I’d have a shot at inheriting his seat at the table—a shot at infiltrating the Court, at taking them down from the inside. I’ve only _just_ gotten in good with them, so it's still a fragile situation. Their leader, she…forced me to hand Ed over as a pledge of loyalty.”

Oswald connected the dots in record time, and the end result rendered him positively livid.

“That _dreadful_ woman!” he raged, taking Jim aback. “That— _Kathryn_! She—”

“Yes, Kathryn,” Jim confirmed, nodding. “She's the one you're looking for, but you didn't hear it from me. She's the one who's been calling the shots for the past decade or more. She probably had you and Ed in her sights from the moment you were sworn into city hall. If Ed hadn't gone and waved a huge green flag to get her attention, you might've eluded her interest in the long run.”

“Have you finally up and taken leave of your senses? If you hadn't gone and _handed him over to her_ ,” Oswald shouted, taking another merciless swing at Jim with his cane, “we wouldn't be having this conversation!”

Bridgit aimed a brief lick of flame to one side, advancing menacingly as Oswald stepped back.

“Fair point,” said Jim, shakily. “All right, listen. What I'm about to say is extremely important, because it's the entire city at stake. Barbara found out on my behalf that the Court shipped an unspecified weapon or some kind of device into Dock 9C. She and Tabitha ran into a masked assassin, and all they got away with was the knowledge that the shipment came from Indian Hill.”

“As much as I wish I could help you with your little health and safety problem, I don't give a _fuck_ ,” Oswald spat, pleased to see Jim's expression of shock at his uncharacteristic use of such extreme profanity in public. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because if you assemble your ranks and start storming into Court strongholds, you're going to run into more than just one of those assassins,” replied Jim, reluctantly. “They're called Talons, they're lethal, and the Court has a whole _army_ of them.”

“Now you're talking, old friend,” said Oswald, grimly satisfied that they were getting somewhere. “If I wanted to compile a list of these, oh, _strongholds_ , where might I begin? Do you have any leads, or will Bridgit and I need to have a chat with someone else?”

“You might try asking my colleague, Lucius Fox, to put you in touch with Alfred Pennyworth at Wayne Manor,” replied Jim, starting to sweat. “You might also ask Lucius some questions, seeing as he's had the most recent...up-close-and-personal interactions with Ed, besides me.”

Vaguely impressed at Jim's cooperation, Oswald gestured for Bridgit to fire down her weapon.

“ _Well_. This has been an absolute delight,” he sighed, stepping forward briefly to pat Jim on the cheek, enjoying Jim's reflexive misery at the uninvited contact. “It's always a pleasure to catch up. In recognition of your compliance, perhaps you'll get an invitation to our one-year anniversary party. Barring unforeseen circumstances, my guess is that The Sirens will host again. Tighter security this time, of course. I hope you will agree, moving forward, that Ed deserves the same hands-off policy that I do, _hmmm_? I keep my legally-wedded spouse in check, GCPD stays away?”

“That's the problem,” Jim said, hand on the door. “You're not doing so hot with that, are you?”

Oswald stalked past him in disgust, content to let Bridgit and her threat of fire bring up the rear.

“Stop talking, Jim,” he snapped, not bothering to turn for one last glance, “before you regret it.”

“ _Jeez_ ,” Bridgit breathed once they were back inside the limousine. “This is all pretty messed-up.”

“I thought that, by your impressive standards,” said Oswald, tautly, “it might prove rather tame.”

“I take it the mission was a success?” Caroline ventured. “Are we goin' anywhere else, Mr. C?”

“We are calling on Lucius Fox,” Oswald sighed. “Seems it's a day for pestering GCPD's finest.”

Lucius's residence, at least, was in a more reputable part of town. He rented half a brick duplex on a bucolic residential street leading into one of the city's safest suburbs. If not for Bridgit at his side, Oswald would have felt like he was making a polite social call.

Their target answering the door in slippers, pajamas, and a bathrobe was entirely unexpected.

“Mr. Cobblepot,” said Lucius, his expression neutral and his tone friendly. “What a surprise.”

“Rest assured that I have no intention of threatening you unless I absolutely must,” said Oswald, raising one gloved hand, indicating Bridgit. “My companion is strictly a precaution. While I've recently had reason to be annoyed with you—”

“It's two o'clock on a Sunday afternoon,” Lucius said. “Do you know where your husband is?”

“Astute, Mr. Fox,” said Oswald, chuckling. “Astute. That's exactly why I'm here. I'm well aware you've had recent dealings with Ed, and Jim Gordon claims you have a connection, in the form of one Alfred Pennyworth, who might be able to lend assistance. May I come in?”

“I'd rather you didn't,” replied Lucius, refusing to budge. “What, exactly, is your pitch?”

“Jim Gordon handed Ed over to the Court last night,” Oswald said thinly. “I know this because I threatened him with a demonstration of Ms. Pike's incendiary skills. There's one piece of information I lack, and it's _where_ Ed is being held. For some strange reason, Jim seems to think that the Wayne boy's butler might have answers—and, furthermore, that you're the quickest route to him. Why is that?”

“Let's skip [the _why_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11170998) and get to the _what_ ,” Lucius suggested. “As in, what do you want?”

“I want to know why Jim believes you and Mr. Pennyworth can help me, and then I want to offer you a considerable sum of money to do so,” Oswald told him, deliberately keeping his proposal as succinct and unambiguous as possible. “Are you interested?”

“The money won't be necessary,” said Lucius. “Alfred and I have personal interest in the Court.”

“Personal?” Oswald echoed, following a hunch. “ _Alfred_? Oh, _well_. Congratulations. But, moving along: does this personal interest include finding where the Court keeps its prisoners? If not, I'm afraid we _might_ be at an impasse.”

Lucius glanced furtively around his front yard before unexpectedly tugging Oswald inside.

“Long story short?” he said, closing the screen door behind them. “Bruce is missing. There was—this will sound farfetched, but it’s no more improbable than the dead coming back to life—an Indian Hill clone of Bruce right under Alfred's nose for right around a week, and now _he's_ slipped away, too. Early hours of this morning, as near as Alfred can tell. The clone isn't important; in fact, according to Alfred, the clone had begun to display symptoms that suggest to me he may be dying. If the clone was following Court orders, then it stands to reason that they have Bruce. And Alfred thinks he's found something in an...artifact that he and Bruce stole from the Court with the help of Selina Kyle. Do you know Selina? Never mind; I can tell from your expression you do. In any case, I'm heading over to Wayne Manor to have a look at it. If it's what I think it is, then we might be able to help you. But make no mistake, Penguin: I have conditions, too.”

It was such an impressively long-winded, Edward-like speech that Oswald felt like applauding.

“Which are?” he asked instead, leaning in closer on his cane, watching Lucius begin to squirm.

“Get Ed some kind of psychiatric help once he's back in your arms, even if it's only just meds,” Lucius shot back sternly, declining to give even the slightest bit of ground. “He needs it. By all accounts, so do you, but I'm going to pick my battles.”

He offered Oswald his hand, so Oswald unpocketed his card and palmed it over as they shook.

“Call as soon as you have a lead,” he told Lucius. “And you should know that I expect results.”

“Mr. Penguin, with all due respect,” said Lucius, slipping the card in his robe pocket, “I deliver.”

On arrival back at the mansion, nothing could have prepared Oswald for the screeching, tear-filled reunion that awaited in the form of Selina Kyle rushing into Bridgit's open arms as soon as they spotted each other from opposite ends of the entryway. He watched them, startled.

Ivy skirted the hugging, sobbing pair and sidled gingerly up next to Oswald in front of the door.

“Yeah, me too,” she said under her breath, patting Oswald on the shoulder. “I've got nothin'.”

Oswald edged right out from under Ivy's uninvited touch, marching past the girls and through the spiked archway until he reached the dining table.

Ivy followed him, looking slightly chagrined, nonetheless keeping pace with him without the slightest difficulty.

While Olga poured each of them a full glass of wine, Selina and Bridgit self-consciously wandered in.

“Hiya, Mr. Cobblepot,” said Selina, giving him an awkward salute, nowhere near reminiscent of her previous unobtrusive self. “Thanks for keeping Ivy out of trouble. She needs it. Last I saw her, there was this crap with a necklace—”

“Oh, shut the hell _up_ ,” Ivy muttered into her wine glass, nursing it. “It was no big deal!”

“Thanks for helping me find my friends,” blurted Bridgit, disarmingly emotional. “I mean it.”

Oswald smiled bitterly, waving a hand at her. “Given what I'm asking, it's the least I can do.”

“Yeah, and _pay_ us,” suggested Selina, strolling over to claim the seat to Oswald's right.

“Relax,” said Ivy, downing her wine a bit too quickly for comfort. “That was always the deal.”

“Where are Gabe and Ms. Aragon?” Oswald asked Olga, who had continued to hover. “Report?”

“They went to help Victor and his family at the docks,” she said. “It was something important.”

“Thank you, Olga,” said Oswald, his mind snagging on something that Jim had said earlier. “Thank you very much indeed. Won't you get glasses for the others? Sit, Miss Pike. Drink. I have the feeling you'll need it before we're through.”

Selina gulped her wine as quickly as Ivy had, holding her glass out for seconds, while Bridgit nursed her portion as if she had no idea what to do with it. Ivy demanded another glass, too, handling her drink gracefully as if to spite the others.

By the time Gabriel returned, Oswald, four glasses down, had firmly cut the girls off at two.

“You havin' a party without me, boss?” Gabriel asked, blinking at the three girls and Olga flanking Oswald at the table. “Listen, you had better prepare yourself. We got somethin' big, and it ain't what we expected to find, either.”

Oswald sat forward in his chair, leaning hard on the edge of the table. “Then _wow_ me.”

As if on cue, Zsasz and Vee, followed by four of Zsasz's crew, led a black-clad prisoner with an equally black bag over their head into the room.

The captive stood upright, stoically silent, entirely evocative of the Talons of which Jim had spoken.

“If you are who I think you are,” said Oswald, catching Ivy's eye, “then Miss Pepper is going to have a _blast_.” He gestured at the bag. “Take it off.”

The black-masked stranger glared as Zsasz revealed him, bound hands straining behind his back.

“You, _Talon_ ,” sneered Oswald, accusingly, indicating that Ivy should follow him as he rose from the table, “made quite a blunder on behalf of your employers, wouldn't you agree? I'm sure they would be displeased to know you're here.”

The assassin continued to glare at him, lips constricting in an even thinner, more defiant line.

“I thought maybe you'd say that,” Oswald went on, tugging Ivy's necklace. “Do the honors.”

“I never got to try it on somebody who _wouldn't_ talk before,” she said excitedly, unscrewing the tiny amphora. She waved the lid right under the Talon's nose before smearing some of it on her left wrist and waving that in his face, too. “I'm never sure if the interaction with my body chemistry has something to do with it, or if the scent alone would be enough to—”

Oswald silenced her with a gesture, curtly addressing the Talon. “Do you work for the Court?”

“Yes, I work for the Court,” said the unnamed man, distantly. “I work for the Court of Owls.”

“Birds everywhere you look,” Selina muttered under her breath to Bridgit. “It's a cryin' shame.”

“Be quiet, Miss Kyle,” Oswald said smoothly, eyes never once leaving the Talon. “What was brought from Indian Hill into Dock 9C?” he went on. “Inquiring minds would just _love_ to know what was in that crate. What you killed for.”

“A weapon,” said the assassin, swaying when Ivy hit him with another dose. “Delivery method.”

“We _know_ about the delivery method,” said Oswald, impatiently. “What kind of weapon?”

“Delivery method,” repeated the Talon, growing agitated. “A detonator. For the virus.”

 _The virus_ , Oswald thought, eyes going wide. _Oh, Ed. You were impossibly right._

“That's incredibly helpful,” he forced himself to say through his slight, tipsy haze, using it to mask his shock as each and every piece from November fell into place. “And when will your employers be detonating this, _ah_ , virus?”

“Trial run,” said the Talon, voice eerily distant. “Somewhere. Not sure. Tomorrow night.”

“That's _not_ so helpful,” Oswald sighed, leaning companionably into the assassin's shoulder. “I have one more question before we let Mr. Zsasz take you outside and have some target practice,” he went on with mock-regret. “Where does the Court keep its prisoners?”

“In several places,” replied the Talon, entirely motionless. “Caerleon. Tintagel. Miles Cross.”

Oswald frowned into the Talon's impassive face. “Those places are from stories. Mostly fake.”

“Yes,” the Talon went on, “and no. Locations named for places an ocean away. Stories. Old.”

“This is freakin' nuts,” Caroline blurted, lurking beneath the archway, captivated by the proceedings in spite of her best judgment. “Who do they think they are, King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table? It's code-names for real buildings, _duh_.”

“Ms. Fowler, I am _quite_ aware!” snapped Oswald, badly shaken without immediately understanding why.

Before he could even ask the Talon for clarification, the doorbell clanged, startling every one of them.

“I will go answer,” Olga announced, brusquely bustling through from the kitchen. “Wait a moment.”

 _Caerleon_ , Oswald thought, remembering his mother's many bedtime stories. _Tintagel—_

“Hey,” said Ivy, carefully touching Oswald's shoulder. “Earth to Penguin. Are you okay?”

“Nothing, it’s…out of a story my mother told me,” Oswald said. “A song she used to sing.”

“Holy moly,” Selina blurted, staring as Olga ushered in Alfred Pennyworth and Lucius Fox.

“Always a pleasure, yeah,” Alfred retorted, stepping graciously aside for Lucius. “After you.”

Lucius carried what looked like a rolled-up poster under one arm. He spread it on the dining table, indicating that Bridgit, Ivy, and Selina should help him pin down the corners. Thankfully, the girls' bewilderment was sufficient to keep them quiet.

“Long story short,” Lucius said to a mystified Oswald, pointing to various _X_ -ed out circles on what looked to be a hastily-drawn, if extensive, map of Gotham, “it's their properties. There's nothing else they could logically be, barring strategic targets.”

“ _What's_ their properties?” Oswald demanded, limping to stand beside him. “Would you care to explain?”

“Don't tell me that creepy glass owl had some kinda secret code in it or something,” Selina said tipsily.

“In essence, yes,” Alfred admitted, flanking Lucius on the opposite side, hovering close with a protectiveness Oswald recognized far too well. “Shine a light through it, and Bob's your uncle. Map of the whole bleedin' city projected on the wall. Like magic.”

“Magic,” Oswald murmured, fingering one _X_ after another, turning to face the Talon in a slow, stunning moment of realization. “Ivy, hit him again,” he breathed, the shape of a notion worthy of Edward beginning to form. “Just to make sure.”

“You got it, Mr. Penguin,” said Ivy, letting go of her corner, delivering another whiff. “Ta-da!”

The Talon flinched this time, struggling against his bonds. Gabriel and Vee held him tighter.

“Do you recognize this map?” Oswald asked, gesturing the three of them closer. “What is it?”

“Gotham,” said the assassin, vacant eyes tracking over Lucius's drawing. “Court holdings.”

“Do you know the names of these places?” he asked, indicating the scatterplot constellation of points marked with _X_ , the melody of his thoughts' pursuit leading him inexorably on. "Victor, cut the man's bonds."

The Talon nodded, flexing his freed hands. “I know the names of these places.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” whispered Bridgit, momentarily as loose-tongued as Selina thanks to the wine, gawping as Alfred and Lucius stood aside to accommodate the Talon as Oswald dragged him forward by the shoulder. “What the...”

“Show me Caerleon,” Oswald commanded, watching the Talon's finger land on a nearby _X_. “Excellent,” he said, nodding in approval as Lucius, ever attentive, pulled out a notebook. “Now, can you tell me if there are any prisoners currently there?”

“There are no prisoners,” said the Talon, jerking as Ivy dosed him again. “None living.”

“Aw, man,” said Selina, pulling a face. “This is like somethin' out of a horror movie. _Sick_.”

“Miss Kyle, I am asking you for the last time, _please_ do your feline best and attempt to hold your tongue,” Oswald grated, at the end of his tether, patting the Talon's shoulder in unnecessary encouragement. “Show me Tintagel. Are there prisoners?”

“There are no prisoners,” replied the Talon, finger sliding diagonally to another _X_. "Not for years."

Oswald caught Olga's glance over the Talon's shoulder; the memory of his mother's voice unraveled.

_Just at the mirk and midnight hour,_  
_the fairy folk will ride,_  
_and they that would their true love win,_  
_at Miles Cross they must bide._

“Show me Miles Cross,” he said, "and tell me if that's where your _bitch_ of a queen has my Ed!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, of course, is the point at which _Tam Lin_ becomes more relevant than ever. You can read both of the most frequently-cited Child Ballad versions online; 39A is [**here**](http://tam-lin.org/versions/39A.html), and 39B is [**here**](http://tam-lin.org/versions/39B.html). You can also listen to any number of renderings on YouTube, but the best-known recording is probably [**the one by Fairport Convention**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jy3ihk205ew).
> 
> For curious and interested parties, there's a bonus ficlet from Victor Zsasz's perspective, [**_Show Your Hand_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11246781), that picks up immediately where this installment leaves off. It's _slightly_ more plot-advancing than most ficlets have been.


	29. Hell Hath No Fury

Edward started awake with a gasp, brushing fitfully at the imagined sensation of breath against his ear. He sat up and lashed out, his elbow clashing so hard with cold iron bars that it took all of his restraint not to howl in agony.

Miserably, he hunched forward on his knees, rubbing at the residual, burning pain in his neck.

Two yards beyond the bars, flanked by a pair of sconces that glowed eerily orange, there was a door. 

To the right of the door, inexplicably, there was an expensive leather armchair. And it was occupied.

“Hiya, Ed,” greeted Kristen, waving cheerfully from where she reclined. “Remember what I said about learning when to quit?”

“Nope,” said Edward's reflection, perched on the arm of the chair at her left elbow. “ _Ouch_. That was an awfully big needle, huh?”

 _If Hell exists_ , Edward thought, glaring at them in defiance as he got to his feet and began to take in his surroundings, _then I'm surely in it_.

“Not to get nit-picky,” his mirror-self interjected, rising to approach the bars of the—this much, at least, Edward wasn't hallucinating—oversized birdcage in which he was imprisoned, “but it's not as if your ancestors believed in any such thing, at least not in the classical Christian sense. Where's this coming from, Oswald's creepy Anglo-Protestant shrine to the dead?”

 _Religion is a whole other kettle of fish_ , Edward remembered saying on the day they were married, a throw-away banality. _And anyway_ , he thought, narrowing his eyes at the apparition, slapping at it through the bars, coming in contact with nothing but air, _what do I care?_

“Oh, Eddie, that's just it,” said his reflection, eyes narrowing right back at him. “You're about to.”

“Nice place they got here, isn't it,” said Kristen, getting to her feet. She came over to stand beside Edward's reflection, wrapping both of her hands around the bars. “Looks like the guy beside you has got the right idea,” she said, nodding to Edward's right. “He looks comfy.”

Edward stepped back from his hallucinations, staring at the cage next to his own. Through its bars, he could see a third cage, empty save for a stool. On the floor of the second cage, a ball of rough, dusty-looking woolen grey blankets snored.

All that protruded from it was a wavy mop of dark, dark hair.

“Kind of them not to leave us alone in here,” remarked Edward's mirror-self. “And, anyway, what was it you noticed about the guards?” he asked Kristen. “Two of them in uniforms, right outside the door?”

 _I can't possibly know that_ , Edward told himself, backpedaling until his legs hit the stool in his own cell. He sat down, taking stock of his feet: thick white tube socks and slightly pinched utility boots. _They brought me here while I was drugged_.

He'd been wearing neither of those tasteless items when Kathryn and the masked assassin had taken him. He flexed his fingers against his thighs, loathing the scratchiness of the thin, pocketed grey jumpsuit. He still seemed to be wearing his undershirt and boxers beneath it, at least.

The rest of Edward's clothing had been taken from him. That was a crime.

“The dose didn't knock you out completely,” Kristen explained. “You got a good look at those guys on arrival before they stuck you with another half-dose and stripped you. They may have taken your pretty purple mask, but at least they let you keep your glasses.”

Edward touched the nose-piece and frames to verify that they had, indeed, been put back on his face.

“We have no reason to lie to you,” said Edward's reflection, bluntly. “If anything, we want to help.”

“The day you help me,” Edward spat, “is the day your laughable secondhand idea of Hell freezes over!”

Seemingly startled at the sound of footsteps, the two hallucinations stepped aside as the door opened.

Two guards entered, each bearing what looked like a cafeteria tray with something moderately better than a state-mandated school lunch on it.

Neither one of them said a word, although the one that approached the second cage didn't look surprised to see its occupant asleep. He unlocked the door and opened it just enough to set the tray precariously on a kind of fold-down outcropping.

The guard in front of Edward's cage waited until his companion had departed to jingle his keyring.

“The other guy's been here a week,” he told Edward. “Knows the drill. Knows it's better to sleep.”

Edward nodded, making no move to rise as the guard opened his door and did the same with his tray.

“You'll get used to it,” said the guard, re-locking Edward's door. “Besides, this is only temporary.”

As the guard turned to leave, Edward noted both the tranquilizer gun and club fastened to his belt.

“Wait!” Edward exclaimed, seized by sudden, indignant fury. “Where did you put my clothes? Do you even know who I am? Who I'm associated with?” He thought of the antique tie pin, his eyes beginning to burn. “Some of those things are valuable, and I want—no, I _demand_ them back!”

The guard turned, smirking at him, and went over to a wardrobe in the far corner that Edward had failed to notice. He opened one of the stately, owl-carved doors and reached inside. He came back over to Edward's cage and flung a single, floppy article through the bars before exiting.

Edward scrambled to retrieve the black glove. If this was the only token of Oswald's affection he'd be allowed for comfort, then he'd take it. He studied it for a moment, running his fingers over the worn leather, slipping it reverently onto his right hand. He clutched his fist to his chest.

Kristen and his mirror-self stepped back into their original positions beyond the bars of his cage.

“Hey,” said Kristen, pointing to Edward's curled, covered hand. “doesn't this remind you of something? Why don't I dress up like my librarian doppelgänger and tell you a story?”

“It's a _doozy_ ,” gushed his reflection, clapping in excitement. “We haven't heard it in ages!”

“ _No_ ,” Edward gritted out, retreating to the stool, never mind that the coffee actually smelled decent and his stomach was growling. “I want you to get away from me! I _don't_ want to think—”

“Why is that?” asked Kristen, sounding almost gentle. “Stories are a way to pass the time.”

“Not _that_ kind of story,” said Edward's mirror-self, mockingly. “Reminds us too much of. _Well_.”

“I'm already thinking about Oswald,” Edward retorted, “so— _yeah_. Kindly keep it to yourself.”

“That's not what I meant,” Kristen replied, sadder than ever. “I thought it might remind you of your—”

“I don't want you to remind me of anyone!” Edward shouted, the edge of his meltdown looming like the threat of a very, _very_ long fall. “I'm haunted enough as it is, won't you _please_ —”

“We changed our mind,” said Edward's reflection, furious, stalking right through the bars of the cage like a vengeful ghost. “We changed our mind, we made a promise, and then? We _fucked up_!”

“Need-to-know basis!” Edward seethed, leaping to his feet, going nose-to-nose with the specter. “If we—if _I_ didn't find the answer, then—then the city would have been in danger! _Oswald_ would have been in danger! Don't you get it? Surely I was obliged to _try_ —”

“Honey,” Kristen interjected, passing through the bars with slow, stately strides, “that shit I said about solving the riddle to save your husband? It was a lie. Worse yet, it was a lie you told yourself.”

“You don't need to tell me,” Edward hissed, jabbing his gloved index finger right at her non-existent nose, “that all I'm really doing is talking to myself! I _know_ that I'm talking—”

“Then why don't you stop?” said a calm, curious, _entirely_ unexpected voice from the next cage over.

Edward whirled away from his demons, coming face-to-face with a comically blanket-caped Bruce Wayne.

“What...” He struggled to address the boy, for an improbable moment wondering if his hallucinations were visible to others after all. “What are _you_ doing here?” he finally managed.

Bruce shrugged, fetching his breakfast tray, taking it over to the stool. He sat down and sipped coffee.

“You'd better start on yours, too,” he suggested, pointing to Edward's tray. “Gets cold fast in here.”

Hesitantly, Edward approached the tray and took hold of it, not even bothering to remove his glove.

“Jell-O,” he said, an embarrassing non-sequitur if ever he'd heard one. “They gave us red Jell-O?”

Mouth full of that very item, Bruce took another sip of coffee. “It's the only edible thing we get.”

Edward took the tray back over to his stool, quickly assessing the other items. “You're right,” he said.

“To answer your question,” Bruce went on, “I'm a prisoner because I refused to do what they asked.”

“Which was?” Edward replied, stabbing his Jell-O with the useless spoon the guards had provided.

“Agree to train with some strange old man up in these...mountains, I don't even know where,” said Bruce, eyes fixed unblinking on his tray. “There was snow as far as the eye could see. Canada, maybe? Alaska? When I refused, they drugged me again. When I woke up, I was here.”

“You were right to refuse,” said Edward, disgustedly, taking a suspicious bite of Jell-O. If nothing else, it quieted his stomach. “I cannot even begin to _guess_ at the utility of such an exercise.”

“I can,” Bruce said quietly, meeting Edward's gaze. “While I was there, before I refused, they drugged me with something else. _Not_ one of the midazolam injections. They touched a needle to my forehead and induced...a hallucination, I guess you could call it.”

Edward shivered, shooting a poisonous glance at Kristen and at his reflection. Both had retreated back to the armchair, had taken to watching the proceedings with an air of haughty indifference.

“What kind of hallucination?” he asked, fiercely hoping that Bruce would continue to be forthcoming.

“A memory I often revisit,” said Bruce. “They asked me to forsake it, to become something I'm not.”

“To play devil's advocate,” Edward deadpanned, finally braving the coffee, “I'd like to forget mine.”

“Your hallucinations?” Bruce asked, brows knit in slight confusion. “Or the memories behind them?”

“Both,” Edward sighed, knowing he'd regret more than a few sips. “I've been trying to make new ones.”

“New _memories_ , I hope,” replied Bruce, with a smile too grim for someone so impossibly young.

“Yes,” Edward agreed hesitantly, setting down the coffee in favor of the Jell-O. “The hallucinations don't multiply, at least. It's been the...same ones for a while now. They have _no_ manners.”

“They speak to you?” Bruce ventured, clearly fascinated. “They interact with you? Like ghosts?”

“They do,” said Edward, nodding toward the armchair next to the door. “They're right over there.”

Bruce nodded soberly, as if this were a thing he understood, and Edward was captivated in turn.

“I have three,” he said. “Sometimes four. They inhabit the same space. They never see me.”

“But they speak,” prompted Edward, breathlessly, his hunger forgotten, “and they look real?”

“They speak,” Bruce agreed, tensing, but his gaze was candid. “And scream. Two of them die.”

“One of mine is dead, but chatty,” Edward volunteered in commiseration. “The other one's _me_.”

“One of mine is also a version of myself,” said Bruce, unexpectedly. “I don't hate him anymore.”

Edward laughed at that, the sound echoing low and bitter off the high, vaulted walls and ceilings.

“How in the _world_ ,” he asked, skeptical, “did you manage that? Wish I could say the same.”

Bruce shrugged, picking up his coffee cup, using his free hand to set his tray down on the gritty floor.

“Time,” he said, taking a contemplative sip. “Tears. Fighting off pent-up anger. Finding another memory to take its place. Finding _words_.”

“Words?” Edward asked, setting his tray down in kind, scooting his stool closer to where the bars of his cage and the bars of Bruce's touched. “How is that even possible? Mine use words to mock me.”

“So did mine,” Bruce agreed. “But I remembered something my mother taught me, something she took comfort from in difficult or unexpected moments. Somehow, I never forgot it.”

“So you did what, exactly, with these words?” Edward asked dubiously. “Turned them into a mantra?”

Bruce shrugged again, seeming to shrink from Edward for the briefest of moments before he spoke.

“That's what a prayer is. A mantra, maybe a reminder. _Baruch atah adonai, eloheinu melech ha'olam, shehecheyanu_ —”

“ _V'kiy'manu, v'higyanu lazman hazeh_ ,” Edward cut in, reciting the remainder along with him.

“I didn't know you were Jewish,” said Bruce, cautiously, and then looked as if he regretted the statement. “Or...that you knew Hebrew. That is, I don't mean to make any assumptions. You seem...”

“Like I'd be the last person in the world to make any claim to a faith?” Edward asked. “Yeah, well. I don't, but... _my_ mother taught me that, too. It was one of the texts in a book she kept next to her bed. I never asked why she had it, although I spent a lot of time later in life piecing together details on the family she never talked about. I liked the book because it had a section in the beginning that read like riddles. _Despise no one, and call nothing useless_ ,” he recited, “ _for there is no one whose hour does not come, and there is no thing that does not have its place_.”

“That one's attributed to Ben Azai,” said Bruce, in faint fascination. “Your mother had a copy of the _New Union Prayer Book_?”

Edward shrugged. “It's a whole other kettle of fish,” was all he could offer by way of explanation.

Bruce nodded, seeming to understand that the topic of Edward's mother had outstayed its welcome.

“Anyway,” he said, “the prayer's derived from an ancient phrase that didn't talk explicitly about God, even if it's implicitly addressed to deity. _Baruch she'higyanu lazman hazeh_. Thank you for allowing us to reach this moment. That's all it means. And I'm glad that I reached this one.”

Edward considered the striking simplicity of Bruce's suggestion, if only because it would annoy the _shit_ out of his reflection.

As for Kristen, he didn't know, and he didn't really care.

“Did you say it the night the lights went out?” he asked, unable to restrain his sudden, unholy curiosity.

Bruce nodded. “In my head, to myself,” he replied. “I wondered what Jerome would've made of it.”

“Seeing as he _brought_ you to that moment,” said Edward, wryly, “he would've been flattered.”

Bruce laughed at that, the sound as startling as Edward's mirth had been, but somehow much lighter.

“It's Sunday morning,” he said. “I've figured out that the guards bring breakfast around eight o'clock. They hauled you in sometime between ten and eleven last night. I was already starting to fall asleep, but I listened to what they were doing. Early this morning, before your injection wore off, there was just enough sunlight through those windows for me to get a look at your face. I recognized you. From the GCPD, from Arkham, from the mayoral race, and from...that night with Jerome. What did _you_ do to end up here?”

Edward sighed. It was only a matter of time before Bruce turned his own line of inquiry on him.

“I made the mistake of thinking I should solve the riddle Strange had me pose to you and Fox.”

“Yes, but I mean,” Bruce continued, “what actions did you take to accomplish _that_?”

Edward flexed his right hand in its glove, considering the contours as he studied it against the light.

“I disrupted a theatrical performance in order to get the attention of Gotham's elite, and then I kidnapped Mayor Aubrey James in order to interrogate him on the subject. At that point, Jim Gordon tricked me into coming down to the GCPD. From there, he took me right to them.”

“Jim Gordon delivered you to the Court?” asked Bruce, frowning. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“That makes two of us,” Edward sighed, balling his hand back into a fist. “Why do you trust him?”

“Jim Gordon is a good man,” said Bruce, softly, “but he has a number of distastefully persistent flaws.”

“Both Oswald and I agree with you on that point,” Edward replied. “Where can I get a blanket?”

“The guards told me that I was allowed to have one because I was a special guest,” Bruce admitted, “so my guess is that they'd refuse you one.” He removed the blanket from his shoulders, pressing it against one of the gaps shared by their bars. “Here, I've had it for a while. Your turn.”

Shaking his head, Edward shifted off his stool and onto the floor, curling his hand against his chest.

“Thank you, but no,” he said. “You should go back to sleep. One of us needs to keep watch, maybe try to get one of those darts off the guards' belts. With luck, I could pick our locks with it. Get us out.”

“Why are you offering to help me?” Bruce asked, bundling into his nest. “We haven't been friends.”

“Because you helped _me_ ,” said Edward, staring at the empty armchair. “And that's something.”

Over the dreary, near-indeterminate course of the day, they slept and kept watch in fitful shifts. 

They were both awake when the guards arrived to take away their breakfast trays and replace them with a sorry excuse for lunch. It included tea instead of coffee, and there was more red Jell-O. 

The younger of the guards slipped Edward the newspaper from under his arm once the other had gone.

“I miss Alfred's cooking,” Bruce remarked, poking at what might have been mashed potatoes. “Badly.”

“I miss Olga's,” Edward said, hungry enough to eat all his Jell-O. “I'll never take it for granted again.”

Edward perused the newspaper while Bruce slept through until early evening, impressed with the boy's ability to hibernate at will. In the absence of writing utensils, he did the Sunday crossword in his head.

At some point, he must've fallen asleep, because he woke to find that Bruce had taken the newspaper.

“Congratulations,” he said to Edward, eyes unreadable. “You made the front page. And _every_ page.”

Edward shrugged and lay back down on the floor, turning his back on what was surely judgment. He flattened his gloved palm over his sternum, struggling to perceive his heartbeat through leather and cloth.

“Do you know what I miss even more than Alfred's cooking?” Bruce asked abruptly, paper forgotten.

“What's the thing that will break every time that you name it?” Edward shot back in sheer annoyance.

“Silence,” Bruce answered without skipping a beat. “I'm afraid what I miss is the opposite of that.”

“Constant blather?” Edward guessed. “Because if that's it, you're doing a great job of filling the gap.”

“No,” replied Bruce, taking his turn to be frustrated with Edward. “What I miss is _music_.”

“Fortunately for you,” Edward sighed, giving in, “Oswald says I know a lot of ridiculous songs.”

“I don't think I could stand something ridiculous,” Bruce admitted, “and I can't sing to save my life.”

 _Let me play the librarian just once_ , Kristen pleaded. _You owe him this small thanks_.

“Fine,” Edward sighed, flexing his hand against his chest, not bothering to turn. “What kind of song?”

“My father liked folk music,” said Bruce, as if the admission pained him. “I wish I had listened to...”

 _What was it about a right-gloved hand?_ asked his mirror-voice. _And what did it mean?_

“Seventies folk?” asked Edward, hopefully. “Maybe I can dredge up some of that if I try hard enough.”

“Why not,” Bruce muttered, his voice muffled in the blanket. “You seem to enjoy an audience, so...”

Edward let Kristen search the archives he'd filed down, _down_ so far he couldn't bear retrieval.

What drifted up from the abyss on blood-red smoke was a melody he'd long, _long_ ago lost.

_My right hand will be gloved,_  
_and my left hand will be bare;_  
_cocked up shall my bonnet be,_  
_and combed down shall my hair._  
_These are the tokens I give thee—_  
_no doubt, I will be there._

_Last, they'll turn me in your arms_  
_into the burning gleed—_  
_then throw me into well water,_  
_oh throw me in with speed._  
_Then I'll be your own true love,_  
_and turn into a naked knight;_  
_cover me with your green mantle,_  
_and hide me out of sight._

“I remember this,” said Bruce, distantly, yawning as Edward continued. “My parents had a record.”

“Fairport Convention,” Edward agreed, suddenly drowsy, “but I think I'm pulling verses out of order.”

“Gleed?” Bruce wondered aloud, sounding as if he were no longer listening. “What does that even...”

“Coal or ember,” Edward yawned, letting his eyes drift shut. “Archaic usage, fourteenth...century...”

Whether it was an hour later or a hundred years later, they woke to a deafening racket in the corridor.

( _Impact, crack of skin-sheathed bone against glass. Fine spray of gunfire. Flame?_ ) 

The door burst inward, revealing—for one heart-stopping second before the room erupted in a blaze—shattered stained-glass windows in the corridor. At least half a minute ago, the guards' alarmed pleading had faded into crackling silence. 

Edward reeled back against the farthest bars, gasping, only to stagger forward as the smoke cleared.

“There you go, boss,” said a girl's voice, as the figure it belonged to dropped into the singed armchair.

The next figure to emerge from residual smoke rushed forward to grasp iron rendered too hot by far.

“ _Don't_!” Edward gasped, catching green-gloved hands through the bars, holding on for dear life.

And while he'd never felt the urge to kiss any of his hallucinations as a test of corporeality, _this_ —

“As if the threat of burning could part us,” Oswald said. “I found you again. Just like I promised.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you followed the links at the end of the last chapter, you'll know that the verses quoted here do not, in fact, appear in the Fairport Convention recording of _Tam Lin_. For our purposes, in this version of reality, pretend that they do.
> 
>  **[Bruce Wayne is, depending on who you ask, canonically Jewish](http://jewishweek.timesofisrael.com/i-am-vengeance-i-am-the-night-i-am-jewish/)** ; [**David Mazouz is factually Jewish**](http://www.nyblueprint.com/film-television-television-schmear-chronicles-week/david-mazouz-jew-crush). If anybody takes issue with my headcanon regarding Edward's background and how it intersects with Bruce's, please keep it to yourself.


	30. Heaven and Earth

The urgency with which Edward hauled Oswald forward into a kiss made the bars' residual heat between them seem like a side effect. Edward felt solid, tasted _real_ —stale coffee and cloying sweetness. If not for the tears crowding his throat, Oswald would've been puzzled.

If not for the profoundness of his relief, he also would've slapped Edward as hard as he dared.

“You said you would tear the city down brick by brick if that's what it would take,” Edward managed, as reluctant as Oswald to pull away in spite of the others' presence. “Did you?”

“Within strategic parameters,” said Oswald, stroking Edward's cheek, “I moved heaven and earth.” He kissed Edward again, easing back down onto the balls of his feet as their stance grew untenable. “Before I ask Miss Kyle to pick these locks and get you—” he spared a glance for Bruce in the next cage over, not in the least surprised “—out of here, there's one thing I need to make clear. I love you, Ed, but this is _not_ a reward.”

“You all right, Master B?” asked Alfred, from somewhere behind Oswald. “Holding up, yeah?”

“Yes,” Bruce agreed as Oswald shifted his stern gaze back to Edward's questioning one. “I am.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” said Edward, his expression as disorderly as his hair. “What's not...”

“Make no mistake, Ed,” Oswald said, clasping Edward's sole gloved hand. “You may be the love of my life, but I'm furious. We'll discuss it later.”

“Jeez _Louise_ ,” said Ivy, stepping up beside Oswald in front of the cage. “He's a mess.”

Edward looked her up and down while Selina rushed to Bruce's cage and hurriedly freed him.

“Why are you wearing my clothes?” he asked, stupefied. “Oswald, who— _why_ is she—”

“FYI,” Selina told Bruce, giving him a perfunctory hug before shoving him into Alfred's waiting arms, “that jerk who went around pretending to be you almost pushed me out a window.”

“It's a tedious explanation,” Oswald told Edward, drawn forward again in spite of himself, wanting nothing so much as to keep Edward close, “and also irrelevant. Miss Kyle, _please_ —”

“Yeah _yeah_ ,” Selina sighed, squeezing past Ivy, shoving at Oswald so she could insinuate herself between him and the cage door. “Hiya, Forensics Guy,” she said, wiggling her lock-pick into place with deliberate recalcitrance. “We keep bumping into each other like this, huh?”

“How about we cut our losses, call a truce, and I call you Cat instead of Street-Trash Girl?” Edward proposed, watching her work with something Oswald could've sworn was envy.

“See, I like your husband,” Selina remarked, popping the lock with ruthless efficiency. “He's a gentleman, and really sincere about it, too. I won't let just anybody call me _Miss_.”

Oswald met Edward's half-lidded ire with as apologetic a look as he could manage under the circumstances. Edward looked just about as rough as he'd looked in Arkham, and it _hurt_. He was also shivering where he stood, and little wonder, too, given the near-frigid temperature.

“Ignore her,” said Ivy, shooing Selina off to stand guard with Bridgit near the door. “I think she's just sore that all this fuss was to save _your_ mischievous butt. Hi, I'm Ivy Pepper.”

“Charmed,” Edward said, stepping straight past her and into Oswald's arms. “Keep the clothes.”

“You'll catch your death,” Oswald murmured, holding him close. “Miss Pepper, if I might—”

“One step ahead of ya, Pengers,” she said, shrugging out of her ratty green coat with its faux-fur trim, draping it over Edward's shoulders so that Oswald could tug it around him. “There.”

Edward hunched into Oswald even more fiercely, one hand coming up to fuss with the garment.

“It's like the song,” he mumbled while Oswald struggled to catch snippets of both muffled conversations happening behind him. “Listen, there's something I should sing you later if—”

“Many, _many_ things about this situation,” said a chilling, slightly raised voice from the doorway, “are reminiscent of the greatest songs of old. And here I'd considered it a mystery.”

Oswald turned to regard an owl-masked figure—on whom Bridgit, Selina, Alfred, and Lucius had trained their weapons—and the two sets of Talons behind her in the hall. One of the assassin-pairs restrained Gabriel, who was struggling; the other restrained Vee, who was not.

Still, Oswald refused to relinquish Edward. Mystery or fairytale, he knew his part in this story.

“How lovely to see you again, Kathryn,” he said, helping Edward get his arms properly into the green coat before belting it around his waist. “The Founders' Dinner feels like forever ago.”

“You made a mistake when you attended with this one on your arm, Mr. Cobblepot,” continued Kathryn, as Oswald's team stepped aside to let her and the Talons with their hostages pass. “I was able to peg him as your weakness from the start. All I had to do next was peg _his_.”

“But hold me fast, and fear me not,” whispered Edward, pleadingly, his fingers tightening urgently around Oswald's wrists, “and I'll do you no harm. What am I?”

“ _Ed_?” Oswald gasped, disbelieving, tearing his eyes away from Kathryn. “That's—”

“A riddle, from the sound of things,” said Kathryn. “And it did you all the harm in the world.”

Edward shook his head, entwining the fingers of his left hand fiercely with the fingers of Oswald's right. He let go of the other, gesturing at Kathryn with his gloved free hand.

“Whatever it is you've done, whatever it is you're about to do,” he implored, “shut it down.”

_Oh, Ed,_ Oswald thought, watching as Kathryn began to laugh. _It's not only a riddle; it's the tale we’ve been playing out since the moment we first met in a darkened wood._

“Not likely,” said Kathryn, pushing the mask up into her hair. “Gotham's overdue for a cleansing, and you know as well as I do that this metaphorical tithe must be paid to Hell.”

_Unreal_ , Oswald thought, squeezing Edward's hand all the tighter. _If this is fate—_

“Either call it off or don't,” he sneered. “See if I care. One way or the other, we'll die.”

“Yeah, like,” Ivy began, both hands raised harmlessly in front of her, “I'm pretty sure we've all made peace with it. Besides, all the people I give a shit about are here. Good way to go.”

“Speak for yourself, kid,” Vee retorted, causing the Talon to shake her. “I'm gonna die alone.”

Oswald watched Ivy remove her necklace in an obvious, plaintive gesture as she approached Kathryn. She unscrewed the amphora's lid as if to show off the entirety of its workmanship.

“This belonged to my grandma,” said Ivy, guilelessly. “It's worth a lot of money,” she continued, waving the amphora directly under Kathryn's nose. “If I give it to you, will you let us go?”

“No,” said Kathryn, hazily. “Don't be absurd. I have neither reason, nor desire to let you go.”

Ivy dropped the lid on the floor, dumped the amphora's contents into her palm, and smeared the puddle of perfume oil from Kathryn's nose down to her chin. She smirked at the uneasy Talons.

“I think you might wanna take over the questioning from here, Pengs,” Ivy said with smug cheer.

Edward looked to Oswald in such confusion that his grasp almost faltered, but Oswald held on.

“Watch,” he said, glaring at Kathryn. “Are you planning to infect Gotham with the Tetch virus?”

“After tomorrow night's trial run at the Daughters of Gotham debutante ball,” intoned Kathryn.

“Do you call the shots on this?” Oswald continued, willing Edward to catch on. “Alone?”

“There was a unanimous vote in its favor,” Kathryn continued. “But yes, at this point, I do.”

“Then call it off,” Oswald said, kissing the back of Edward's left hand, enjoying Edward's shiver. “Take out your phone and contact whoever needs to be notified of your intentions. Tell them that they’re to destroy both the weapon and all remaining stores of the virus. Killing themselves afterward is _strongly_ recommended. Loyalty to the Court runs deep, does it not?”

“Yeah!” Selina chimed in loudly, evidently recalling the fun she’d had with their captive the night before. “And also tell them you suck!”

While Bridgit and Ivy snickered, Oswald fought the urge to tell them all they were grounded.

“Please ignore that last command,” he told Kathryn. “But let the rest of my instructions stand.”

By that point, the four Talons restraining Gabriel and Vee looked positively jittery.

Oswald nodded to Alfred and Lucius, gesturing at the Talons as he solemnly addressed them.

“Let go of my associates,” he said, grinning with satisfaction. “Go with these two gentlemen.”

“Miss Pepper,” Edward whispered over his shoulder, his tone full of awe, “I misjudged you.”

“Water under the bridge,” said Ivy, cheerfully, winking at him. “Wanna see how it’s made?”

“More than _anything_ ,” said Edward, jumping when gunshots sounded in the corridor.

Meanwhile, Kathryn was on her second phone-call, her instructions to its recipient clipped.

“Yes, Detective Gordon,” she was saying, distant and placid, “you indeed heard me correctly.”

“Where’s the rest of the team, boss?” Bridgit asked, making her way past Gabriel and Vee.

“At a guess,” said Oswald, satisfied that Kathryn would remain rooted to the spot and carry out her orders, “Victor and his crack-shots are hunting down the remaining handful of Talons.”

“How many _were_ there?” Edward asked. “I haven’t seen the rest of this building.”

“Twenty,” said Bridgit, hefting the blowtorch with pride. “About ten more than we expected.”

“Hopefully, that’ll keep him and his knife busy later tonight,” Oswald added. He took a few steps closer to Kathryn, leading Edward by the hand. “Are you finished?” he asked, watching Kathryn hang up on Jim and stare unblinking at her phone. “Is there anyone else?”

“There is the matter of myself,” said Kathryn, pocketing the phone, “and what I’m to do now.”

“Seeing as your organization is now in shambles,” Oswald said, withdrawing his pistol from his coat, “and that what’s left of it is either going to self-destruct or wander around aimlessly until it realizes there’s nobody home, you don’t have much reason to go on. Do you?”

“No,” Kathryn agreed, something like subconscious relief seeping into her tone. “I do not.”

“You’ll wanna do it quick,” said Ivy, miming a gunshot with her hand. “It’ll wear off soon.”

Bruce, who’d been watching the proceedings tight-lipped and implacable ever since Alfred and Lucius had returned from the hall, caught Oswald’s attention. He looked upset.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked. “There’s been enough bloodshed. Let’s take her to Jim.”

“Jim,” said Oswald, almost sorry to burst the boy’s bubble, “is so deep in this mess that I’ll be doing him a _favor_.” He cocked the pistol and offered it to Edward. “Do the honors.”

“No,” Edward said, letting go of Oswald’s hand so that he could pull Oswald against him in such a way that he didn’t even interfere with Oswald’s aim, “I didn’t earn it.” He tilted his head, skimming his lips against the shell of Oswald’s ear. “But the pleasure’s _still_ all mine.”

“Fine,” Oswald sighed, relaxing into the novelty of being held while he conducted an execution. “For old times’ sake,” he said, using Edward’s shoulder to steady his extended arm, and fired.

“There may not be consequences now,” said Bruce, after several seconds in which no one dared do much more than stare at Kathryn’s inert form on the floor, “but, one day, there will be.”

“Why don’t you get back to us once you’ve been through the Academy and earned a badge?” Edward suggested, tucking the pistol back into Oswald’s jacket for him. “Can we go now?”

Seconds later, a flurry of footfalls in the corridor materialized in the doorway as Zsasz and his four soldiers. They looked worse for wear, a few of them visibly bloodstained even against the black of their clothing. Zsasz surveyed the tableau before him, grinning at Oswald.

“Good game, chief,” he said. “Real, _real_ good. There ain’t a soul left alive except us.”

“Then, just as Ed suggests,” replied Oswald, starting for the door with Edward on his arm, “let’s clear out and let Miss Pike… _absolve_ these poor, departed souls we leave behind.”

“I suppose they were right about Gotham needing to be cleansed,” Bruce said, and left it at that.

While the building blazed, in an alley several streets away, their various factions parted ways. 

Alfred, Lucius, and Bruce rounded the corner into the street and vanished; meanwhile, Zsasz and his crew stuck around long enough for a transfer of funds. Edward sat quietly in the back of the limousine throughout the proceedings, as putting him there had been Oswald’s top priority.

Once the Zsasz contingent had made a phone-call to someone called Doc and wandered off to their pick-up point, Oswald waited patiently beside Gabriel as Vee and Caroline got an epic, tearful hug-fest out of their systems. There was kissing involved, too; Oswald looked away.

“C’mon, ladies,” Gabriel sighed, tilting his head toward the limousine, indicating that Oswald should just join Edward and that he’d take care of the rest. “Let’s get a move on. It’s late.”

One hand on the back door, Oswald loudly cleared his throat. Both of the women looked at him.

“Please take Gabe’s vehicle,” he said, ignoring Gabriel’s indignation, “and go home. To _whose_ home, I really don’t care. Gabe will drive us back, and he will be compensated.”

“Thanks, boss,” said Gabriel, strolling around to the front of the limousine without complaint.

“Yeah,” said Caroline, quietly, accepting Oswald’s handkerchief, blowing her nose. “Thanks,” she added, immediately approaching Gabriel so that they could swap keys.

“We’re not coming in to work for, like, a week,” Vee told Oswald, leading her away. “Got it?”

“Then if that’s one of your conditions,” said Oswald, side-eyeing the three girls who’d made a point of standing at the far end of the alley so that they could watch the fallout from Bridgit’s handiwork, “you’re going to pack those three in the back seat and take them home.”

“Do you mean your place or Ivy’s place?” Vee asked. “Do Kyle and Pike _have_ homes?”

“Why don’t you just ask them?” Oswald suggested wearily, hauling himself into the car.

Edward scrambled past him to pull the door shut. His eyes widened in horror as Oswald collapsed back against the seat and clutched at the intolerable burning in his knee.

“You didn’t bring your cane,” he scolded, rushing to settle just far enough away from Oswald so that he could tug Oswald’s legs up into his lap. “And I just realized…”

“Tell me what you’ve realized,” Oswald sighed, reclining with his back against the door as Gabriel started the engine, content to have Edward’s hands replace his own. “You look upset.”

“I’m upset that you’re in pain,” Edward clarified, expertly massaging Oswald from ankle to kneecap as they got on the road, “but I’m also upset my mask and tie pin went up in the blaze.”

The mask, Oswald could replace without even troubling his tailor. The tie pin, not so much.

“You needed a mask that wasn’t a butchered necktie anyway,” he said, attempting to sound reassuring. “As for the pin—well, _yes_. That loss, Ed, I regret. But you’re _alive_.”

“That’s true,” Edward muttered to no one in particular, focusing on his task. “So are we all.”

“This might be a bad time for a debriefing,” Oswald went on, folding his arms across his middle, “but I’m beyond caring about what’s convenient. Would you care to explain yourself?”

“That’s too broad an inquiry,” replied Edward, in agitation. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

Oswald sighed, reaching for Edward’s right hand as it approached his thigh. He caught and held it there for a long, reassuring moment before peeling off the glove. He threw it on the floor.

“What in God’s _name_ gave you the idea that going after the Court was a wise move?”

“Barbara’s visit on Friday morning,” Edward replied, squinting at Oswald through the dark.

Oswald experienced a swell of fury so intense that he was grateful, for once, not to be aiming it at Edward. He sucked in his breath when Edward hit a particularly tender spot.

“She knew you’d be easy to manipulate,” he said, “as long as she convinced you our empire’s safety depended on it. If _my_ safety depended on it. Isn’t that the way it went?”

“Partly,” Edward admitted, averting his gaze. “I also made the mistake of telling her it was the answer to a riddle that had eluded me for nearly a year. The one Strange forced me to ask—”

Oswald tapped his fingers along the edge of the seat, staring murderously at the divider. It took every ounce of his willpower not to shout for Gabriel to re-route them to The Sirens.

“Don’t go too harshly on them,” said Edward, unexpectedly. “They provided back-up. Tabitha bombed the biker bar, and Barbara accompanied me on the hospital run. All at my behest.”

“That is not the _point_ ,” Oswald seethed. “The point is that you wouldn’t have done any of this, including involving them in your plan, if they hadn’t put the idea in your head! While I understand that you’re a functional adult capable of making your own decisions, I also understand your compulsions override common sense. They exploited that.”

“And my love for you,” sighed Edward, resigned, hands stilling. “And that, always that, too.”

“You are not my Achilles heel, Edward,” Oswald reminded him, re-situating himself on the seat, beckoning until Edward got the idea and all but crawled in his lap. “You are my _strength_.”

“That can’t be,” Edward protested, already curled as small against Oswald’s side as he could possibly make himself. “I’ve cost you so much. I’ve cost you the _world_.”

“If Gotham is the world, and you know that to me it is,” Oswald said, stroking Edward’s hair, “then believe me when I say _nothing_ is lost. If you’re thinking of city hall, drop it.”

“You didn’t lose any men tonight?” Edward asked plaintively. “Neither did Zsasz, if I heard…?”

“Injuries and nothing more,” Oswald murmured, kissing the top of Edward’s head. “And our enemies brought low, if not to complete ruin. Your recklessness had its advantages.”

Oswald felt Edward’s lips spread in a smile against his collarbone. “Then I was useful to you?”

“We are not following this line of reasoning,” Oswald sighed, “but fortunately, yes, you were.”

“I promised that my future endeavors would be useful to you,” muttered Edward, stubbornly.

“Your presence in my life, although it began with the desire to offer you a position on my staff, has nothing to do with your usefulness,” Oswald explained. “It has to do with who you are.”

Edward’s already labored breathing—undone, _undone_ —devolved into helpless sobs.

“I don’t understand how someone like you,” he hiccupped, “or how _anyone_ can—”

“Love you?” Oswald asked, too exhausted to even shed tears. “I can’t speak for anyone else, but, for my part, the answer’s easy. I love you because you chose me, and because I choose to.”

Edward gradually quieted. He rested his head against Oswald’s shoulder, palm over his heart.

“What will you do to Barbara and Tabitha?” he asked. “I don’t want to be the reason they die.”

Oswald considered this for a few seconds, rubbing Edward’s back. They were nearly home.

“I always did enjoy running that club,” he mused. “And it would please Olga if I at least kept up the _appearance_ of legitimacy. I’ve decided I’m going to make them turn it over.”

“I won’t have to pay for drinks, will I?” Edward asked. “I’ll pull my weight. Keep the books.”

“Absolutely not,” Oswald said. “I’ll pay somebody else to do that. Probably Olga, if she’d like the promotion. Then again, she also has a niece who owns a fruit stand out in New Mexico who’s bored out of her skull. Sveta, I think the girl’s name was. Shrewd businesswoman.”

“At least now I know where that weird jam came from,” Edward muttered, relaxing considerably.

“You, my love,” Oswald told him, “will be my sommelier, because you _do_ have a talent.”

Edward hummed against Oswald’s neck as Gabriel pulled into the driveway, seemingly content.

“You know I’ll want to do things, too,” he said as they hobbled inside. “ _Other_ things.”

“Yes,” Oswald sighed, grateful of Edward’s assistance up the stairs. “You’ll consult me in all of them.” He sniffed, using the railing to steady them both, remembering something. “You’ll also assent to medication at a bare minimum, or Fox will come after you with a vengeance.”

“You made a _deal_ with him?” asked Edward, disbelieving. “You—you would really—”

“Ship you back to Arkham, no,” Oswald sighed, limping ahead of him, leading the way into the bedroom, “but use the extent of my influence with the GCPD to reach a compromise that _benefits_ you in more ways than one? Absolutely.”

“You don’t know that medication will help,” said Edward, petulantly, stripping out of the jumpsuit while Oswald undressed next to the bed. “Neither do I, for that matter!”

“You were not medicated properly in Arkham,” Oswald pointed out. “You were _sedated_. There’s a difference. I’m talking about going to the trouble of finding a psychologist who will work with us to the letter on curbing your compulsions and hallucinations.”

“Hallucinations, I could do without,” Edward agreed. “Burn that,” he said, pointing to the jumpsuit. “But compulsions often work to my advantage.”

“Not lately, they haven’t. I’ll have Olga take care of it in the morning,” said Oswald, as naked as Edward was, limping over to nudge him toward the bathroom. “You’re filthy,” he said. “Nobody’s going to sleep without a shower.”

“Or doing anything else, evidently,” Edward sighed. “I’d carry you, but we’d both fall over.”

Oswald hadn’t planned on bathing Edward turning into anything more than a pragmatic act of comfort, but Edward’s fussy demeanor turned the tide. It took little more than Oswald’s touch and a few whispered words to render Edward pliant and gasping in his arms on the shower floor, docile enough to subject him to a thorough hair-washing once Oswald had washed his own.

“Hands to yourself,” Oswald sighed when Edward tried to reciprocate afterward. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m this close to falling asleep. Turn off the water and help me get up.”

Once they were dry and under the covers, Edward made such a racket along the headboard with his fingertips that Oswald found himself resisting, a second time, the urge to slap him.

“This is about losing your pin, isn’t it,” Oswald sighed, catching Edward’s restless left hand.

“Yes,” Edward murmured, clinging tightly to Oswald. “No? Maybe. It’s just that I can’t…”

All things considered, there was an option at Oswald’s disposal that didn’t involve fucking.

“Stay here,” he said, kissing Edward’s forehead, disentangling himself from Edward’s insistent limbs. He stumbled over to the dressing table, stubbing his toe on the stool in the process.

Even without benefit of a flashlight, it was easy to dig the box from under a sea of thread-spools. 

He cracked it open, coaxed one of the weighty items into place with the curve of his finger, and returned to bed with the other in his palm.

Edward stopped his tapping out of sheer curiosity.

“This was meant to be your birthday present. I am _not_ turning on the lights just so you can have a look,” said Oswald, slipping the band onto Edward’s ring finger like he’d done with his own moments before. “You’re not getting a glimpse at either of them till morning.”

“April Fool’s Day,” said Edward, his tone unreadable. “You would’ve renewed our vows _then_?”

“I can’t think of a better day for it,” Oswald sighed, tugging the covers back up over them.

“You were the best of them all,” Edward said at length, fervently kissing Oswald’s shoulder.

“What, the best riddle?” asked Oswald, overjoyed, aiming for flippancy. “Did you solve me?”

“Not exactly. Turns out you’re the answer,” Edward said, elated. “My answer is _hope_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For curious and interested parties, there's an epilogue ficlet, [**_Until Our Hearts Stop_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11301147), from Fish Mooney's POV.


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